


London Calling

by EvilDime



Series: London Calling [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Action, Crossover, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Humor, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kid Fic, Loki (Marvel) Does What He Wants, M/M, Master of Death Harry Potter, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Hogwarts, Post-Thor: The Dark World, Sherlock (TV) Season/Series 03, Thor Bashing, Up all night to get Bucky (Marvel), locked room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:48:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 33,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28387272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvilDime/pseuds/EvilDime
Summary: A locked room mystery, a Winter Soldier sighting and old friends perplexingly finding new partners lead to some key people coming together. Some *mild* disagreements ensue when everyone is told to work together and play nice.
Relationships: Bruce Banner/Natasha Romanov, Hermione Granger/Loki (Marvel), James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: London Calling [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2112093
Comments: 15
Kudos: 80





	1. This is How It Began

**Author's Note:**

> Five years ago, Runner (who sadly isn't on AO3) lobbed this hilarious first chapter at me and invited me to write this fic together. We both jumped into it with enthusiasm (but very little planning, initially), then life happened and the fic remained stuck half-way for the longest time. It's finally in a mostly presentable state, though as sometimes happens in fics that span multiple fandoms and have more than one author, beware: Here be inconsistencies, and not every character will get adequate screen time. (Also, there's some Thor-bashing. Sorry!) I still think we produced something highly entertaining, so for your consideration, here's our ridiculous crossover baby...
> 
> Set some two years after the war (HP), somewhere around season 3 (Sherlock), definitely after Captain America: Winter Soldier and Thor: The Dark World. Mostly AU to Civil War and ignoring Sherlock season 4.

It had been such a lovely evening. Bruce and Natasha were finally out together – only a casual meeting, of course. They had been to a romantic Italian restaurant and had just talked over a lovely meal and a nice bottle of red wine. Just like 'normal' people would.

Natasha wore a 50's style dress and Bruce could not help but notice that she looked just as hot as in her combat gear. He himself wore his usual attire – jeans and a shirt (white linen, because he thought it matched the Italian restaurant). During the course of the evening he had relaxed considerably. The frequent ruffling of his hair and self-conscious fumbling with his shirt-sleeves were gestures that betrayed his nervousness to Natasha. It was so cute! Of course he did not know that she was totally into him, but his shyness was one of the most endearing things about him.

Later they were having drinks in a bar when the evening took an unexpected turn for the worse. The door was thrown open. Enter a tall blond, bearded male, rather well built, who made quite a few ladies turn their heads – and then quickly look away as it was blatantly obvious that he was stinking drunk.

Natasha squeezed into the corner of their table, hoping not to be seen. “Don't turn around Bruce,” she muttered but it was too late. After briefly standing at the bar and looking around, swaying like a big bear, he unsteadily walked over to them, a stupid grin on his face. He braced himself against the table with both hands which nicely emphasized his muscular arms and broad shoulders, and somehow managed to put himself in a more or less dignified manly pose. Watching her fellow females' reactions war so embarrassing – and people always said men were primitive.

 _Showoff,_ Natasha thought and looked at Bruce who apparently had the same thought. They smiled at each other.

“Thor, how nice to see you,” Bruce said, “but we were just about to leave.” He was a bad liar, another thing Natasha liked about him.

“No, please stay, my friends,” Thor prattled, placing a heavy paw on Bruce's shoulder, “I'll buy us all some drinks.”

That had been more than an hour ago. In the meantime Thor had explained to them why he had gotten so drunk – in detail. He did not have so much to do now, his girlfriend did not have enough time for him, he missed his late brother (and good riddance) … bla bla, yadda yadda. The only positive thing was that Bruce and Natasha could just let him talk and look one another in the eyes, united in their silent understanding ... and misery.

 _God, and I thought I had an inferiority complex,_ Bruce thought to himself. Then suddenly, they were rescued as all their pagers went of simultaneously: “Meeting at the Tower – NOW!'”

* * *

_Some days previously in London._

“I'm seriously worried about Hermione,” Ron said as they walked down a London street. “Ever since she's started dating that guy, we hardly see her any more. And she is so secretive.” Ron sullenly shook his head. “Probably she's just ashamed to be dating an old guy.”

“Ah, come on Ron, don't lash out like that,” Harry said. But he was worried too, more than he let on. About two months after she had started University, Hermione had informed them that she was seeing someone, but she had hardly told them anything about her new boyfriend. In fact, she was so evasive when it came to that topic that they secretly worried she might be dating Malfoy.

One day they had – just by chance of course – observed how Hermione's boyfriend had picked her up from her flat. And what they saw gave them quite the turn. An annoyingly good looking man – probably in this early thirties or late twenties – had very gallantly escorted her from her door into an elegant vintage sports car. He was pale with ice blue eyes. His long brown hair was tied into a pony tail. His aristocratic features were accentuated by expensive clothes, probably bespoke. But he also had a cold, slightly serpent-like air about him and his looks and demeanour screamed money and power.

But Harry had sensed more than that. Something he had not told Ron so far. The man was a wizard, and probably a very powerful one. Harry had sensed that, although Hermione's lover had used a spell to dim his magical signature.

“Ah look, here we are,” Ron interrupted his ruminations, waving the business card in front of his face. They swung the heavy bronze knocker against the door and waited ... and waited. Then, as they were just about to leave, the door was flung open.

* * *

He had had a really, really bad night. His head was pounding like hell, not enough sleep, too many drinks and other substances... He flung himself out of the bed into his red dressing gown and went for the door, his black curly hair totally dishevelled. Two young men, just barely grown up, were looking at him sceptically. One of them reluctantly extended his hand: “Mr. Sherlock Holmes? I'm Harry Potter.”

  
  



	2. Meeting the Legend

Sherlock did a double-take. "This is taking things a bit far," he muttered into his non-existent beard. His brother had once rambled about a civil war in a magical world parallel to theirs, all while presenting the image of a man well into his cups. Sherlock had seen through the ruse, of course, and refused to fall for his brother's infantile prank.

"Mister Potter, a pleasure to meet you," he said, manners bypassing his usual snark filter due to his distraction and coming across unimpeded and, unbelievably, making him appear polite. His hand was mechanically giving the man's a solid shake while he pondered whether his brother was in fact petty enough to hire an actor just to substantiate a prank. "Please, do come in."

"Sherlock dear, who is it?" Mrs. Hudson's voice inquired from the direction of 221A.

"The Boy-Who-Lived," he replied dryly. His guests gasped, which was well-played; but the reaction that threw him for a loop was Mrs. Hudson's.

"Is it really?" she asked, appearing by his side in record time. "Why, it is! Welcome, Mister Potter, welcome! And Mister Weasley, you are very welcome as well, of course. Come in dears, please, come in."

The men looked decidedly uncomfortable, but obediently followed Mrs. Hudson into her kitchen, where she quickly set them up with tea and scones, all the while chattering like a caffeinated squirrel. "...and we are all ever so grateful to you, lad, for what you have done. Why, when my husband was still alive..."

Sherlock looked on, his eyes and ears telling him that this was genuine, while his brain still refused to believe in magic and came up with one hypothesis after another to explain away the things he was hearing and seeing without bringing magic into it.

Mrs. Hudson could have joined Mycroft in his prank. She seemed honestly in awe of their guests, though, and Sherlock knew she just did not do pranks.

What if his guest really was one Mister Harry Potter, and only the part where magic was involved was a joke? The problem with this hypothesis was that Mrs. Hudson had recognized the moniker "Boy-Who-Lived" and not just the man's name.

So maybe the nickname wasn't actually anything magical. Sherlock did not always keep track of the society pages. Maybe the story behind this one had passed him by, and his brother had used his 'magic' ramblings to test Sherlock's knowledge of the current gossip.

Yes, that must be it.

Satisfied with his deduction, Sherlock joined the party around Mrs. Hudson's kitchen table and wrapped a hand around the tea cup she had provided for him. "So tell me, Misters Potter and Weasley, what brings you here?"

* * *

Harry was decidedly uncomfortable. He had not expected to be ambushed by an exuberant muggle with knowledge of the magical world, apparently due to her late husband, in Mister Holmes's dwelling. It had startled him enough that he needed a moment to gather his wits about him before he could explain why they had come to see the detective. 

Ron, as always, had gotten less of the unwanted attention and as such felt less impeded. "Well, since you already know about magic, this will be a lot easier," he started. Only to stop at the look on the man's face. "You  _ do _ know about our world, don't you, Mister Holmes?"

"Of course," the man answered without missing a beat. It felt rather less than sincere, though. Harry furtively pointed his wand, hidden within the folds of his coat, at the man and scanned his surface thoughts. The lessons in his fifth year may have been an unmitigated disaster, but since joining the auror force, Harry had actually gotten a decent grip on both occlumency and legilimency. 

What he found was disturbing in more ways than one.

For one thing, Mister Holmes's brain was unlike any other he had ever visited. Everything was thoroughly ordered and meticulously labelled, and yet there appeared to be a confusing wealth of threads linking every shred of knowledge, every single experience the man had ever made, to each other - which led to the startling discrepancy of a mindscape both orderly like a military facility and chaotic like a rabbit warren at the same time. 

The other thing that made this particular brain disturbing were the surface thoughts proclaiming loud and clear that no, Mister Holmes had indeed not known about magic.

Dammit.

"Ron," Harry said to get his friend and auror partner's attention. "Ron." The ginger-haired man looked at him. "He did not know."

"Say what?"

"He did not know about our world until just now."

"Aw... shucks. What do we do?"

"I'll handle the situation here. You go and have a word with Susan, please, tell her we're sorry, but we'll fix the mistake ourselves. Alright?"

Susan Bones had followed in her aunt's footsteps and pursued a career at the Ministry. She was now head of the department keeping check of breaches of the statute of secrecy. Luckily, she was rather lenient where the aurors were concerned - especially those like Ron and Harry whom she thought of as good people. Ron would be able to keep her from issuing even a reprimand, if only he got there on time. 

"Alright, I'm on my way." Ron inclined his head towards the mildly confused Mr. Holmes and the appalled old lady, saying: "Sorry Mr. Holmes, Mrs. Hudson, I have to run. Thank you for the scones, they were lovely!" With those words, he sprinted out the front door, from where Harry knew he would head straight for the next alley to apparate to the Ministry.

Which left him with the unpleasant task of obliviating Mister Holmes.

"Sir, I am awfully sorry about the confusion, but I will clear it up now if you'll allow me..."

He regretfully raised his wand, already sorry for what he was about to do. Punching a hole into the neat order inside this man's magnificent brain seemed like an unforgivable crime. But it wasn't like he had a lot of choice. So he raised his wand - a lot less circumspect now that he knew the man would soon forget everything about this visit and they could start over - and said: "Oblivi-"

* * *

John Watson had seen enough. The man might not be dressed like the Men in Black, but that stick he was pointing at Sherlock was certainly some kind of weapon. He didn't like it one bit. Stepping silently into the room, he took hold of the man's arm from behind and forced down his hand.

"I do not think so, sir."

  
  



	3. Super-Special Circumstances

This day was just getting better and better.

Harry turned around slowly, never relinquishing his grasp on the wand despite his attacker's strong grip. He mustered the man coldly, while being likewise assessed with what appeared to be military precision. Mrs. Hudson was muttering "Oh dear me, dear me!" somewhere behind him, but neither of the three men made any noise for a good couple of minutes.

Then Harry resignedly holstered his wand with slow, obvious motions. Stepping back a pace to make room, he extended his hand towards the blond-haired man who somehow managed to be even shorter than Harry himself. "Mister Watson, I presume? My name is Harry Potter."

The man nodded, and following Harry into the kitchen proper, warily took the offered hand.

"I work with a special division of the Ministry," Harry went on, "and please believe me when I say I am sincerely sorry about all this. However, we have strict rules about certain situations, and much as it pains me, I need to follow protocol. Meaning that it is absolutely necessary for me to once again point this device at Mister Holmes."

Watson's frown had not diminished in the least. "I don't know precisely what your flashy thingy does, but let me repeat: I do not think so, Mister Potter."

Harry sighed. Great. Watson had heard enough that he associated Harry's wand with memory erasure à la MIB. He'd probably have to be obliviated, as well. Not what Harry had hoped to accomplish here today. As soon as Ron returned, they'd best leave and never return. For one, because Harry was uncomfortable and a bad liar around people he had previously obliviated. Also, this Mrs. Hudson would not help matters at all and he could easily foresee having to obliviate Misters Holmes and Watson multiple times before they were through.

Not worth it.

So best make this quick, and then leave. He could probably speed this entire affair up considerably if he cast a full body-bind on the army veteran. Mr. Holmes should be sufficiently startled by the use of actual magic that he'd have enough time to wipe his memory before he reacted to protect himself. Then Watson. And then leave.

Keeping a weather eye out on Watson, Harry tried to inconspicuously reach for his backup wand with his left, when yet another man entered the kitchen.

"Auror Apprentice Potter, stand down," the new man ordered with the air of one who was used to being obeyed.

Harry blinked. "With all due respect, sir, but I've never seen you before. Who are you and on whose authority do you give me orders?"

Behind him, Holmes snorted. "Oh, ignore him, he just holds a minor position in the British government."

"Not funny, Sherlock," the new man scolded. "It is your mind at stake, not mine."

"His  _ mind??" _ came, predictably, from Watson. Though it was hard to tell if he was outraged on his friend's behalf or pleasantly shocked to have guessed correctly for once.

Harry's lips thinned. "Thank you for making this even harder, sir. Now would you please tell me who you are?"

The man smiled, but surprisingly – given the situation – it was a real smile, not a reserved or even business-like one. "My name is Mycroft Holmes, Mister Potter, I am Sherlock's brother. I carry a special permit to know about your world despite being, as you say, a 'muggle'." He did not even wait for Harry to inquire after the reasons for a special permit, but went right ahead: "Also, I have just requested similar immunity for my brother and his... sidekick. Please feel free to contact your government to verify this claim."

Harry imagined that if he turned to look at Sherlock Holmes right now, he would be able to see the wheels spinning behind his forehead at his brother's choice of pronoun, while he could actually see the deepening frown and voiceless repetition of  _ "Your _ government?" by Watson from the corner of one eye.

"It appears you are determined to make my day difficult, Mister Holmes," he told the man. From what he had heard of Sherlock Holmes, he had expected his dealings with said man to be a continuous struggle for patience. He had never imagined the man had a brother who was even worse.

Resigned to the fact that he had already broken the statute of secrecy and might as well go the next step and perform magic in front of four muggles, at least two of whom knew nothing about the magical world, Harry very deliberately pointed his wand  _ away _ from the other men so no-one felt threatened and clearly enunciated:  _ "Expecto patronum." _

Ignoring the startled noises coming from the younger Holmes brother and Watson, as well as the exclamation: "Oh, it's lovely!" by Mrs. Hudson, Harry quickly spoke to the animal: "Susan, I need confirmation of status on four muggles: Misters Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes, Mister John Watson and Mrs. Hudson, residents of 221B and 221A Baker Street. Mister Holmes claims exception of the Statute of Secrecy for all three men, and I need confirmation that Mrs. Hudson is _actually_ informed in order to avoid making even more of a hash of this situation. Please respond ASAP."

At his nod, the magnificent stag turned around and vanished into the wall with a mighty leap.

Harry's shoulders dropped. "Well, since I need to wait for a reply before I do anything else, why don't we all sit back down?"

Mrs. Hudson wiped a happy tear from her eye, then ushered Harry back to his place at the table, put another scone on his plate and even managed to get Mycroft Holmes seated next to him with a fresh cup of tea in no time at all. "Such a lovely patronus!" she kept exclaiming as she went about her tasks.

The entire time, Harry noticed, the older Holmes brother had not lost his genuine-looking smile. "You seem happy about something, sir," Harry cautiously observed.

The man's smile widened. "I am. You see, during your war, London took some heavy damage; damage that I was incapable of doing anything about. Your ministry cut off all contact at a time when it was obviously being taken over by magical fascists. Other countries' magical ministries refused contact, claiming they wished to stay clear of British politics. We were literally helpless."

Harry could see Watson's eyes going big as saucers at this statement, while the other Holmes's narrowed to slits. Clearly, this was news to them, and unexpected. Harry got the impression 'helpless' was not usually a term associated with this man. Personally, he took it as a good sign that Mycroft Holmes was so well-informed about current British wizarding events. He allowed himself a small glint of hope that Holmes's claim of a special permit was true and he may still get out of having to obliviate them all.

Meanwhile, Mycroft Holmes continued. "Then three years ago, it all changed. Your Dark Lord lay slain, the fascist regime fell apart, and formal contact was at last re-established." The relief it still brought him was obvious on Holmes's face. The warm eyes focused on Harry. "And to hear it told, it was all thanks to you, Mister Potter."

Harry closed his eyes, then gave a single nod. It had indeed been three years, so he had had time to learn how to accept praise without blushing. Still, it never failed to make him uncomfortable, and as always, he could not quite keep back the remark: "I did have help."

"Naturally," Holmes acknowledged. "Nevertheless, you were the driving force, the face behind which the resistance rallied, and ultimately the one to defeat the Dark -"

"Voldemort," Harry interrupted harshly.

Mycroft raised a single eyebrow.

Now Harry did blush. "I wish people would finally learn to say his name. It's been three years! He is not coming back from the dead this time!"

"I see," was all Holmes said, while Harry could see even Sherlock Holmes's lips trying to help his mind wrap around the words:  _ "This time?" _

"Well, you were the one to defeat  _ Voldemort," _ Holmes accepted the correction. "And I never got to thank you for it. At the time, your government claimed you just wanted to live your life in peace, which I find ludicrous considering the circus they conducted around your heroism themselves, what with award ceremonies, a special holiday and the like."

Harry's blush refused to diminish. "I'd much rather they hadn't," he mumbled.

"Just so," Mycroft nodded. "Still, I felt a bit slighted that I never personally got to give you my thanks, so I do relish this opportunity. You _died_ for us and I can not repeat often enough how much I appreciate your sacrifice." He turned in his seat to face Harry head-on. "Thank you, Mister Potter, for all you have done for Britain."

Harry gulped under the intense gaze, but finally managed to fight the blush down. He'd had enough people thanking him by now to tell the opportunists from the truly grateful. Mycroft Holmes was utterly sincere, and as such he deserved more than a negligent "I just did what I had to," or the more honest: "I didn't want him to win, is all."

Instead, Harry inclined his head and accepted the praise. "Thank you, Mister Holmes. It had to be done, and I am glad that I could."

Watson cleared his throat, then pointedly asked the older Holmes: "Do people frequently die and rise from the dead around you, then?"

While Harry did turn around to see Sherlock Holmes's reaction this time – he was disappointed, beyond a mild downward twist of one corner of his mouth, the man’s face gave nothing away-, the words themselves weren't much of a surprise. He followed the muggle news and it would have been hard to miss the famous - or maybe that should be infamous - detective's miraculous resurrection.

"The difference being," Mycroft Holmes said with the mildly disdainful tone of the naturally superior, "that Mister Potter  _ actually  _ died."

Silence reigned for a long moment.

"Huh," said Watson.

Just when Sherlock Holmes opened his mouth to utter what surely would have been the first of many highly relevant, utterly irreverent and potentially harmful questions, the air shimmered and Susan's patronus appeared with her answer.

_"Harry, DO NOT under any circumstances obliviate any of them! Exception to the statute confirmed for all four people mentioned! Ron will return in a moment to fill you in, but I repeat: For the love of all that is light and fluffy, do NOT wipe them!!!"_

"'Wipe' us!" exclaimed Watson, while Sherlock dryly picked up the much less relevant part of Susan's message: "'For the love of all that is light and fluffy', Mister Potter? Really?"

Harry did not quite know if he should laugh or die of mortification, decided to do neither and simply answered: "She was a Hufflepuff."

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Does anybody know if a patronus is visible to muggles? Anyway, for the purposes of this fic, assume that it is.


	4. Hogwarts Houses

The mention of Susan's Hogwarts house, of course, explained nothing to at least two of the men, but they were saved by Mrs. Hudson's chuckled comment: "So it is true that people carry the traits from their school houses over into adult life enough to recognize a Hufflepuff by their loyalty and their gentleness?"

"Yes, and a Gryffindor by their tendency to rush into danger head-first and evaluate the risks after they've run into every single one of them," Harry added with not a little self-mockery.

"Clearly, that would have been your house," Sherlock Holmes said, glancing at Watson.

"Look who's talking," Watson shot back.

"Actually, I had fun debating with my friends a couple of years back which house the famous Sherlock Holmes would have been in had he attended Hogwarts," Harry inserted with a grin. "Keep in mind we could only go by what was 'known' to the public, and I know from personal experience that can be pretty far from the truth. Still, going by the news back then, good arguments were made for all four houses: Presumably, Mr. Holmes, you are easily intelligent and studious enough for Ravenclaw, you have the impetuousness of a Gryffindor, are sly like a true Slytherin and loyal as any Hufflepuff could ever wish to be. Granted, that last one was only added to the debate after your 'return from the dead', but still. Ultimately, the one conclusion we all agreed on was that Hogwarts could probably be glad you never attended."

Mycroft Holmes chuckled and threw out a heart-felt "Amen!"

Mildly offended, his brother asked: "Why would that be, Mister Potter?"

Harry got the feeling that now Sherlock Holmes was starting to believe the magical world might be real, he would have loved to go to Hogwarts. He did not even want to imagine a Sherlock Holmes wielding magic.

"The thing is," he explained, "that you thrive on logic. The magical world does not. Magic defies all the laws of physics. For example, we actually do fly on broomsticks. There is nothing logical about that. At all. Children of magical parents grow up in that illogical world. You can imagine it isn't easy learning to question things when often, the answer boils down to ‘It's magic!’ So magical folk tend to... don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to pass judgement here, but there is a noticeable tendency of, well..."

Mycroft saved Harry from his fumbling. "There is no polite way of saying it, Mister Potter, so you might as well come out with it: The magical world lacks logic. Hogwarts education lacks logic. The magical government lacks logic. That is just the way that world is. I had a hard time accepting that fact myself, but as I have run up against the illogic that is magical Britain time and time again, I am slowly learning to work around that impediment."

Harry could not help but feel that 'a minor position in the British government' may be a bit of an understatement. "How do you do that, then?"

"I spam the pureblooded magicals with muggle terms until they let me talk to a sufficiently high-ranking muggleborn who can not only see the logic of my requests but also do something about them."

Harry knew there was something deeply wrong with poking fun at the purebloods like that, but he just could not help it; he roared with laughter. "I think I like you," he snorted when the laughter slowly died down. Sherlock Holmes's face twisted as though Harry had just admitted to fornicating with alley cats.

"'Muggleborns?'" Watson hazarded a question.

"Sorry," Harry said, getting back on track. "In the magical world, non-magical people are called 'muggles'." He went on to explain about muggleborns, squibs, and pureblood supremacism. Just when he was getting around to the war with Voldemort, the doorbell announced Ron's return.

"Did you do anything irreversible?" was his first question after Mrs. Hudson let him in.

Harry quickly shook his head. "Luckily, I was interrupted by Mr. Holmes here." He nodded at the older Holmes in explanation.

"No 'luck' about it," scoffed Watson.

"John," Mycroft warned, which was reason enough for Sherlock to elaborate. "My dearest big brother controls all the cctvs in London. He always keeps an eye out on us. Since he obviously knows you, Mr. Potter, – or knows _of_ you, at any rate – he must have known it was time for a personal intervention when he saw you heading for 221 Baker Street."

"What is a 'sissy tv'?" asked Ron.

"I'll explain that in detail later," Harry quickly cut him off. "Suffice to say it's similar to a surveillance spell and allows a person to watch certain places from afar. There are a  _ lot _ of those all across London." 

Ron was suitably impressed, while Harry heard Watson tell Sherlock Holmes that this person must be one of those 'pureblooded' wizards, which Holmes commented with "Obvious."

"So," Ron continued, "Susan told me that due to some High and Mighty in the British government, Sherlock Holmes is off the hook about the statute, along with a couple of other people. I can tell you exactly what she said later, but apparently, an important muggle liaison we never knew about is involved. Know anything about that?"

Harry once again indicated Mycroft Holmes. "That'd be that man over there," he stated. "He's the Bigwig responsible for several exceptions – his own, his brother's, and Mr. Watson's. Don't ask me why  _ exactly _ he warrants it, though. Apparently, he only holds a minor position in the muggle government," he finished with a smirk. 

"Perceptive," commented Sherlock Holmes.

Ron's doubtful face showed clearly that he was not satisfied with that explanation, but he let it slide for the moment. "Harry, if we don't need to obliviate anyone – great. Can we then get back to the original reason for our visit?"

With a start, Harry realized he had mostly forgotten about that, what with explaining to  _ Sherlock Holmes  _ and  _ John Watson _ about the magical world. These people were legendary in their own right, and Harry would admit if questioned that it was great fun seeing a startled look cross the presumably unflappable detective's face so many times in a row. 

Now, his brain quickly got back into gear and he brightened up considerably. "But this is great! Ron, now they know about magic, we can actually try for a lot more than we thought!"

Ron took a moment to connect the dots, but then a boyish grin covered his face, as well. "Blimey, mate, you're right!"

"Would you care to enlighten the rest of us, Mister Potter?" Mycroft Holmes asked cynically.

"Sorry, sir," Harry hastened to apologize. While the man still hadn't given any details on his position, Harry was reasonably sure that he needed to be treated with similar respect as the Minister of Magic. Which the position finally deserved, now that Shacklebolt filled it. "We originally came here to ask about a case we were reasonably sure would not be interesting enough for Mister Holmes to take, and as such, it was always a long shot. We're fresh out of options on that one, though, so we came anyway. However, we have a second matter we'd love to discuss, but as it involves magic, we'd originally thought it a lost cause..."

"Do tell," Sherlock Holmes asked with audible curiosity.

"It's about our friend -" Ron started, but Harry sternly interrupted him. "Work first."

"Sorry mate, of course." Ron contritely sat back and signalled for Harry to take over again.

"Have you heard of the Beauville case, Mister Holmes?" Harry began.

The older Holmes nodded, while the younger frowned for a moment. "Shot in a presumably locked room?" he asked.

"That's the one," Harry confirmed, thinking:  _ "Presumably?" _

"Boring," Holmes predictably confirmed and checked out of the conversation.

Harry turned to the older brother. "Mister Beauville was a suspected Death Eater who was never convicted. However, our government firmly ruled out magic as a possible contributor in his death due to some heavy protective charms enveloping the room where he died. Beauville, despite being a pureblood, had dealings in both worlds, so we assume he was killed by a muggle adversary. Unfortunately, once the case was turned over to the muggle authorities, the explanation about the murder we received back from them was deemed unsatisfactory and our superiors bid us investigate further. Quite frankly, aurors are not trained as well in mundane investigative methods as the regular forces, so you can imagine just how much success we've had... which brings us here."

Mycroft Holmes chuckled, but this time it had a somewhat sinister undertone. "My brother has in fact already looked at the scene and at the body, in turns. He passed his findings about the cause of death on to me, and from the victim's political affiliation and manner of death, I extrapolated his murderer and that information I passed on to your government."

Harry was deeply troubled by this news. "We were told the muggle government did not take the request seriously and their answer was a pure mockery."

"I wish," was Mycroft Holmes's terse reply. 

"Wait a minute," Watson interjected. "Sherlock told me about the cause of death, but he never mentioned the murderer. I assumed that part was not interesting enough... So who was it that would be so hard to believe? I for one would love to know who can shoot like that, now that Moran's out of business! I am sure I could never have made that shot."

"Could we back up one more step?" Ron spoke up. "I'd also like to know  _ how _ they did it."

"Apparently," Watson said, still sounding like he had trouble believing it, "the man was killed by a shot through the hotel suite's open window."

"Erm. But the only window open at the time was in the living room and not the bedroom he was found in; the opening only spanned about two fingers, not to mention that window and the partially open door to the bedroom are not aligned with each other. Also, if he was shot, why did they find no bullet? And how do you explain the cut throat?"

"The bullet ricocheted."

"Excuse me. It ricocheted?"

With an impatient noise, Sherlock Holmes deigned to enter the discussion. It was clear he only did it because in his eyes, Watson was butchering his fine deductive reasoning in the re-telling.

"The bullet was fired from a carriage of the London Eye through the narrow strip of Beauville's open window on that side of the Premier Inn. Inside the hotel room, it once again changed direction, this time deflecting off the cast iron lamp hanging near the window. It ricocheted twice more, as the chinks in the only other solid iron items in the room will prove to anyone with eyes. Once in the bedroom, the bullet skimmed Beauville's throat, thus cutting it open, before it burrowed neatly into the wall in such a way that it perfectly blended with the wall paint."

Harry was impressed. He did not think the man breathed a single time during his rapid-fire monologue. He was a bit doubtful of the conclusion he had drawn, though. But there was an easy way of proving it. "When you say the bullet blended in with the wall paint, do you mean it is still there?"

"We did of course recover it as evidence," Mycroft replied smoothly. "A normal bullet should not bounce like a billiard ball without losing shape, precision, or at least speed. We retrieved the bullet to discover its make. However, the hole it left in the wall is still there."

"A normal sniper also never could have made that shot," Watson grumbled.

"Misters Holmes, could I presume upon one of you to show me that hole in the wall?" Harry asked respectfully.

"Now?" Sherlock Holmes frowned. "It will take us rather a bit to reach South Bank."

"If you trust me to use magic on you, it won't," Harry said with a secretive smile.

"I do not need to prove myself to you," Holmes said loftily. The intrigued glimmer in his eyes however told Harry he had him even before the man continued: "but if it will get us to the potentially interesting second request faster, I shall concede."

"That's very generous of you," Harry said with a perfectly straight face, making both Ron and Watson snort with stifled laughter. Holmes looked a mixture of startled and irritated by their outburst, but then elected to get up without comment when Harry rose and beckoned him closer.

"Hold on to my arm, Mister Holmes," Harry said. "Now, you will experience a sensation a bit like being squeezed through a tube, but don't worry, it is perfectly harmless…"


	5. Detective Work

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year to everyone who's on the Gregorian calendar!

'Like being squeezed through a tube' actually described it fairly well in Sherlock's opinion. It was not a pleasant feeling. Nevertheless, he enjoyed the experience immensely. Imagine, from Marylebone to South Bank in the blink of an eye – or the squeeze of a tube, as the case may be.

"Amazing," he said before he could stop himself. "I am finding it increasingly hard to doubt the concept of magic."

Potter grinned at him.

Together, they stepped from the foot of the bed where they had landed up to the headboard. Sherlock's mind was whirling with the possibilities for crime this magic provided. A locked room was never truly locked to a magic user, was it? How perfectly aggravating!

"Here, see this?" he said, absently pointing out the hole in the wall perfectly aligned with the previous position of the dead man's slit throat. Potter bent down to inspect the hole with equal parts incredulity and grudging acceptance. He straightened back up and opened his mouth, but Sherlock, anticipating his request, had already crossed the room towards the little safe on the mantle to show off the last of the ricochet chinks. "Right here."

Potter inspected each chink, measuring the distances and angles with his eyes, then with some complicated magic light trick.

It appeared to Sherlock that they were impressed with each other in equal measure, which was an entirely new experience for him, professionally speaking. John impressed him at times, true; but it was rather his patience with  _ people _ and his army skills Sherlock admired. Not a variety of skills as versatile as this man possessed. Although Sherlock did not for a second imagine anyone but John Watson would make an acceptable flat mate for one Sherlock Holmes, so he supposed it all balanced out somehow. 

Except that it didn't. John was living with Mary now, was married to her and more than half-way out of Sherlock's life.

Not liking that train of thought, Sherlock turned his attention back to the ...wizard, strange though that concept still was, who had brought him into this currently very much locked room. "Satisfied?" he asked with a deliberately haughtily raised brow.

"Indeed," Potter said, then seemed startled for a moment and laughed as though at a private joke.

"Something funny?" Sherlock asked, striving for nonchalance, but not entirely managing to hide his curiosity.

Potter scratched his neck with the handle of his wand. "It's just that one word. A former teacher of mine used to say that a lot. I was reminded of him just then. Don't think I ever said it like that before." He hesitated a moment, then went on: "I suppose you remind me of him a little. Tall, dark, and always looking down on me for my lack of wit or skills." He smiled a bit sheepishly.

Sherlock was astonished. He had thought but a moment ago that here was someone he did, in fact,  _ not _ look down on. "For a nationally acclaimed hero, you have startlingly little self-confidence," he stated. Narrow-eyed, he considered the man for a moment longer. Then the deductions burst out of him: "I know from Mycroft's drunken ramblings that you were orphaned at an early age. Clearly, the family you grew up with abused you. Your bone structure and posture hints at stunted growth, so lack of proper nutrition. The missing self-confidence speaks for itself, and sacrificing your life for the greater good? Never a sign of a happy, well-adjusted mind, no matter how heroic." His eyes widened and his nostrils flared. "You flinched. Something I said."

"For the Greater Good," Potter pressed out. Sherlock could practically taste the capitalization on the air hissing out between Potter's clenched teeth. "Everything was always for the fucking Greater Good. Leaving me with the Dursleys who hated me. Never giving me the whole story. Grooming me to walk like a gentle little lamb to my own slaughter. Telling me who to be friends with. Fuck, telling me who to marry!"

Sherlock got the distinct impression of more pent-up emotional turmoil than he was prepared to handle. "I believe it is time to return to the others."

"God," Potter groaned, "sorry for bothering you with the mess that is my life. For the record, though – you did ask."

"True," Sherlock said.

Potter awkwardly extended his arm to Sherlock again who took it with a similar measure of awkwardness. In another squeeze and with an audible displacement of air, they returned to Baker Street.

They were just in time to hear the tail of John's question: "…then how do we know Moriarty is actually dead?"

Sherlock felt the blood drain from his face. Of course. With the existence of magic, and with Mycroft having stated that Mr. Potter had  _ returned from the dead,  _ how could they ever be sure?

"A reasonable question," Mycroft answered, "but please do give me some credit. I personally confirmed that the man was dead, then had specialists of both the regular and magical variety confirm that the body belonged to the correct person and that his soul had truly left it. I sent a blood sample to Mr. Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters and had their specialists confirm that Jim Moriarty did not carry the X gene nor, to the best of their knowledge, had any form of super serum in his blood stream."

Sherlock scowled. This was another instance like magic where he had chosen not to believe Mycroft. Which was the true reason why he never told John about the murderer's supposed identity. Surely, this time Mycroft was pulling his leg?

Potter beside him seemed to be having similar troubles. The hand he had wrapped around Sherlock's shoulders for transport remained there, frozen as though in shock. "You don't really mean to tell us all those supposed superheroes the Americans have been raving about lately are more than a publicity stunt?"

Weasley frowned up at him. "Superheroes like that muggle who can fly, and the other one who can shapeshift without magic?"

"Yes, those ones," Potter answered. "Most news that comes out of America can be trusted as much as the Daily Prophet - think wizarding  _ Sun, _ " he interjected a translation for the muggles among them - "so I assumed the talk of a recent mass appearance of superheroes and mutants was just more of the same." He looked at Mycroft with almost pleading eyes. 

Sherlock's brother lived to disappoint, of course. "Every report MI6 brings back only serves to further substantiate the fact that these people do exist, that they are very much out of the norm and must, it pains me to say, indeed be classified as 'superheroes'. What is more, the continued existence of the organization known during WWII as 'Hydra' has been confirmed without a doubt by way of the recent data dump from the American 'S.H.I.E.L.D.' agency, courtesy of one Agent Romanoff and Captain America."

Sherlock would have crowed at his brother's visible and audible discomfort at speaking those names were he not at that very moment subject to the same intense displeasure. Superheroes were as illogical as magic. They were not supposed to exist!

Occam's Razor, however, had cut his resistance to the idea of magic into fancy little strips and ribbons that would make nice decorations for a child's birthday party, but would not help him in his attempt to remain in denial about the existence of the Avengers and probably also those X-Men.

"I hate the world," Sherlock calmly stated.

"For once, I feel with you, brother." It may have been the only time in recorded history that the two Holmes brothers were in complete agreement.

During their brotherly bonding time - which sounded much nicer than 'shared pity party', albeit Sherlock would of course never admit to conducting either -, it was actually John who first recognized the relevance of the new data to the Beauville case. Sherlock would have praised him had he not been too busy hating the world. Or maybe he wouldn't have, but they'd never know.

"Fuck," John breathed, "don't tell me Beauville was shot by the  _ Winter Soldier?!" _


	6. Winter Who?

"Who on earth is that supposed to be - and is he one of those superhero types?" Ron asked, rather thrilled. Sherlock looked none the wiser, and a steep crease between his brows betrayed his displeasure at this situation.

"Rather a supervillain, if you ask me. He's probably _the_ most dangerous assassin in the world right now," retorted Watson. Mycroft smiled his superior little smile, enjoying knowing more than anybody, as usual. Still, he basked in such moments like a lizard in the sun. 

Mycroft, of course, did not stay for tea, far too busy. He flapped a dossier about the Winter Soldier on the coffee table and swept out ... but only after cordially shaking Harry's hand once and assuring him what a pleasure it had been to meet him, which made Harry avert his eyes and blush like usual.

The remaining party was soon settled with tea and biscuits, which they all ignored in favour of devouring the dossier. It was hard to believe that this was supposed to be real. Initially Ron was constantly grinning and thrilled about the existence of superheroes and could not wait to meet one in the flesh. "Wow, look at when this dossier begins. An old fart like that is supposed to be a supervillain? ... Cool, robot arm! Oh, literally can't be killed ... Wow, this guy does not look old at all and the photo is recent ... He looks really scary." The smile faded gradually and Ron went a bit pale as it more and more dawned on him that he would not like to meet this Winter Soldier guy at all.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at Ron. "What did you expect when John said he was _the most dangerous assassin_?" he asked, voice dripping with scorn. But admittedly he had a really hard time coming to terms with the news himself. What he saw surpassed even what he had imagined when his brother had confirmed the existence of superheroes and -villains. The circuits in his brain worked, but it was like they were caught in an infinite loop of trying to solve this problem with logic, failing and starting over. He was very displeased and uncomfortable. He had known his game so well, and now the rules were suddenly very much changed.

Harry had been suspicious from the start. It would be cool to meet a superhero, but then the supervillains were also real and he sure had had enough of those for a lifetime. Also he had learned that the lines between good and evil could be rather fluid. "Well," he said, "at least this settles our case, Ron! We can now confirm that the muggle government did not try to bullshit us. So the case is closed. Question is: What are we supposed to do about it?"

"What indeed," Sherlock said thoughtfully, and John, who had watched him intently was really alarmed at the little smile that played around the corners of Sherlock's mouth. "Sherlock! What on earth are you planning to do? Track this guy down? This is madness! And he is not even you type - of criminal I mean! I guess there is no playing games with this one! Besides: HE SHOT A GUY THROUGH A TINY WINDOW CRACK AND AROUND TWO CORNERS. Christ!"

"Nevertheless I will have to see him with my own eyes to truly believe that he is real," Sherlock replied.

"I have an idea," said Ron hopefully. "Why don't we ask your brother to invite one of the nice guys over. If you see a real superhero you won't need to see the supervillain!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes again but Harry smiled. His friend's sometimes slightly naive but good-natured way of looking at the world had helped him get through dark times. A minute ago the air in the room had been getting really thick. He did not know his host and the man's friend yet, but it was plain to see that they were about to have a huge fight. Ron had once again managed to cool down the situation - even if that might not have been his intention. Clearly he had just tried to get to meet a superhero as soon as possible. Harry was glad though, because he had no desire to see two near strangers fight, although he found them rather interesting and would like to meet them again. But they had another issue to discuss.

"I suppose it will take some thinking to decide what to do about the Winter Soldier," Harry said. "But there was something else we wanted to talk to you about, Mr Holmes. Are you still available for that?"

Sherlock was really not in the mood right now. His mind was busy with the Winter Soldier. However, he rather liked Potter. Besides he was a magician. Working with him could maybe at least help him to wrap his head around  _ that. _ And he seemed to have a complicated past, always a promise of something interesting. "Right. Let's hear it then."

"We have this really good friend. We were inseparable during our school years, and although she did not choose the same profession as we did, we also used to hang out afterwards all the time. Recently she started seeing someone. She hardly told us anything about him, and we have not seen her since. We really worry. A lot." Harry had closely watched the detective to be sure not to bore him. After the super exciting top-notch assassin story they had just discovered he felt stupid to come up with their small personal worries. But to his surprise Sherlock did not look at him but glanced sideways at John - or rather stared blankly in John's direction. He seemed lost in introspection.

Suddenly, Sherlock snapped out of his contemplation: "What am I supposed to do about it? That sort of thing happens every day! You have a friend - a very good friend with whom you spend most of your time. You've become so used to his being around and he or she has so much become a part of your daily life. But then comes love and everything changes! You feel like you never saw it coming - although rationally of course you must have known it. Jealousy is such an ugly emotion and we're all way too grown up for that. So just be happy for your friend."

John had started to shift uncomfortably during Sherlock's rapid monologue. Once more Harry had the feeling that something was going on that did not pertain to the Hermione situation at all. He chose to ignore it for now. "Of course you are right, Mr Holmes. But here's the thing: The man is pretending to be a muggle, but he's not. Really, _really_ not. We saw him once, from a distance, and I haven't felt magic like his before, it's... I don't know, strange, alien; but strong. With magic this strong, he must be able to feel that our friend is a witch. But if he knows, why would he hide his own awareness of magic from her? It just doesn't add up, but Hermione won't talk to us about him, she never has time lately to meet up and just talk, not even about the latest book she's read. Please, will you look into this?" He looked at the other man pleadingly.

Sherlock had to think for a split second.  _ Really not my kind of case. Probably just a misunderstanding caused by jealousy and hurt feelings. But interesting people. Magic! Distraction from John moving out ... _ "Okay, I'll help you. But consider it a huge favour."


	7. A Means to an End, or Isn't She?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Couple of short chapters today.

Loki paced up and down agitatedly. Through the huge window of the luxurious 14th floor apartment London lay before him, its many lights glittering in the night. But Loki could not care less. He was deeply immersed in thought.  _ Hermione!  _ Was he still in control of the situation here? He was not so sure and that - not being in control and not really knowing what he wanted - was the worst!

At first things had gone smoothly, just as expected. He posed as a visiting PhD student and had started to attend one of Hermione's literature classes. Won her attention by being smart, polite and a bit mysterious. He had picked up her folder when it had - conveniently - fallen down one day when she had left class. He had found out where her favourite spot in the library was and started hanging out there. Of course Loki had always seemed very busy and barely seemed to acknowledge Hermione's presence.

But in reality he was doing everything to make her curious about him. By placing the right books on his library desk, by the remarks he made in class and finally by letting some of his magical power shine through. So it did not take long for Hermione to come up to him in the library and ask him about one of the books he had piled in front of him. They ended up having coffee together, soon after the first date, the first kiss. Frankly, it had been easier than he had expected. Of course he had lots of experience in this kind of thing. Oh, the list of women, giantesses, half-goddesses that he had persuaded, seduced or tricked to get what he wanted.

He very determinedly did not think about Svaðilfari.

But poor, young, innocent Hermione - she had literally waited for someone like him to come along. Not, of course, for someone who merely wanted to take advantage of her, but she did not know that yet. For someone who could offer her something, someone who knew more of the world than she did and someone she did not always have to hold back with in order to not make them feel stupid. And maybe also for someone a bit mysterious, a bit dark and not always so saintly and self-sacrificing as her friend Harry.

_ Damn it!  _ He had just done it again! He had let himself empathize. That was a dangerous path. This young witch might have been easy to "befriend", but she was neither a stupid sheep to be sacrificed at the altar of getting what he wanted, nor a cunning bitch that kind of deserved to be on the losing end for a change. She was really smart and interesting, innocent in a way, and kind, but not boring for it, brave but not foolhardy. 

_ Oh no. _ Loki was beginning to grow attached to her and  _ that  _ he did not like at all.


	8. Should I Stay or Should I Go

"Curses, we were just beginning to have fun," Thor slurred, getting to his feet shakily. He walked over to Natasha, offering her a hand to help her out of the booth. "We Asgardian knights NEVER forget our banners err manners. _Buuurp_! Oh, sorry and yes, pun fully intended!" Thor smiled at Bruce provocatively, who in turn shot him a poisonous look. 

_ Very cute when jealous, _ Natasha noted. She smiled at Bruce in a reassuring manner, made a face that said  _ Whatever will get us out of here _ and took Thor's hand. 

An awkwardly silent taxi ride later - silent except for Thor's drunken snoring, all the while resting his head against Bruce's shoulder - they were in the Avengers' Tower. All the others had already arrived and were seated, which did not contribute to making their entry less embarrassing. Natasha and Bruce acted as if they had just coincidentally bumped into each other at the door. Thor so obviously tried to appear sober that he seemed even more drunk. Steve looked at the trio and cast Natasha a questioning look.

"So," Nick Fury announced. "How would you three love-birds like to spend your honeymoon in London!" He clicked and his impressive silhouette was illuminated by the skyline of the city he had just mentioned. Natasha replied with a very unladylike snort and Thor protested that he belonged to his Jane alone. 

"Well, have it your way. However, Ms. Romanoff, I'm sure that you will want to travel to London, and Mr. Rogers, too." Another click. Natasha froze and looked over at Steve anxiously as a picture of the Winter Soldier was projected over the skyline of London. "MI6 has just called to inform us that they are quite sure the Winter Soldier has recently been active in London."

Sam watched Steve's whole demeanour change at Fury's words. Where he had been leaning back in his chair, at ease but a little annoyed at being away from his research into Barnes's whereabouts, he was now perched on the edge of his seat, body at attention, every muscle tensed like some big cat preparing to pounce.

"They found Bucky? Is he doing alright?"

The corner of Fury's mouth twisted downward. "MI6 could not apprehend him, of course, we only have video evidence of his presence there. According to their report, however, he appears to be sticking to his plan to wipe out Hydra single-handed. He was in London to end several lives - only some of which we know from the database were definitely Hydra. We are confident that with some further research, however - or the upcoming additional data from the crime scenes, clothes pins and such - the remaining unknowns will also eventually be confirmed Hydra agents."

"How is the Queen's administration taking the news that a rogue Sovieto-Brooklynish murderbot is conducting unauthorized executions on their pretty island?" Tony Stark chipped in. He was still leaning back in his chair in a display of utter nonchalance, but Sam could see his eyes were alive and a bit anxious. Tony did not have any love for the man who may or may not have killed his parents, no matter how much Steve adored the guy.

Fury frowned at Stark's wording, but conceded the point. "They are annoyed, is what they are. They want him out of their domain yesterday."

"Then let us go and retrieve our friend's shield brother!" Thor's voice boomed. Steve nodded his eager agreement.

Sam looked at him. "You do realize he might still not remember you properly, right?"

Steve shrugged it off. "Yeah, he might not. But he still fished me out of the Potomac when he should have let me drown. He's turned against Hydra. That is a sufficient show of memory for my peace of mind. ...And enough danger to take that peace away, him doing this all by himself."

His anxious face tore at Sam's heart. "Alright, so we go and see what we can do. But don't get your hopes up. We've been hot on his trail several times before, but he always managed to skip the country before we even caught sight of him."

Steve gave him a sad smile. "I know, Sam. Doesn't mean I won't keep trying."

_ Till the end of the line, _ he didn't say, but Sam heard it anyway. Steve had told him of the effect that phrase had had on the Winter Soldier, so he was unlikely to forget it in a hurry. If someone ever wrote about Steve and Bucky's childhood friendship in a novel rather than a history book (or in the form of a trashy romance, heaven forbid!), that would probably be the title. 

"I am cautiously optimistic that this time, you may have better luck," Fury announced.

"Really? Why?" Steve asked, vibrating in place like a hound before the chase.

"Because of this." With a click of the remote, Fury replaced the picture of London and its Winter Soldier overlay with a grainy black-and-white video.

Sam watched as a motorcycle came to a stop at a gas station. The Winter Soldier was clearly recognizable even in Jeans and a T-shirt when his bike came to a halt right underneath the camera.

"When did he get so careless?" he heard the Black Widow mumble. He remembered that Barnes had never been caught on any cameras before, likely owing to astute observational skills combined with intrinsic knowledge of where cameras were most commonly affixed.

The reason for his current inattention became clear the moment he got off the bike. Rather than swing his leg behind him to get off, he grappled around behind his back for a few seconds, eventually lifting something from the back of his seat and putting it down beside the bike.

Sam stared in shock as the thing moved. It was a little boy.


	9. Motorcycle Mama

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Another short chapter. Just the one today, sorry. Quoted lyrics are by Neil Young.

_"Motorcycle Mama  
Won't you lay your big spike down  
Motorcycle Mama  
Won't you lay your big spike down..."_

The on-board stereo was turned up to full blast. Not that anyone would notice: The large black chopper with its foreign license plate was lazily eating up the miles on an utterly deserted country road. The man sitting on the bike in his black leather outfit looked too grim for his music, and the lowered, dark visor certainly did nothing to distract from the aura of menace his entire body projected. On its own, the luggage strapped to the back of the bike may have been a golf bag; but when carried along by this man, anyone would surely treat it with the caution usually afforded a gangster's violin case in old Mafia films.

_ "Ich hab' Hunger," _ a tiny voice cried out over the music and the head wind. 

The dark man's mouth twitched downward. Murder seemed imminent. The man gave a sharp nod and turned towards a small village at the next intersection, shutting off the radio. There was an open pub on the main road and he parked his bike in front of it.

The locals turned suspicious eyes upon the stranger. At least until he got off the bike in a somewhat unusual fashion, lifting his right leg and swinging it over the bike's front rather than the back - revealing the child sitting behind him. The boy appeared to be around six years old, healthy if a bit on the thin side, and obviously fairly happy with their stop. He eagerly tugged off his helmet revealing a mass of ruffled blond hair.  _ "Mittagessen?" _ he asked hopefully. 

The dark man nodded, exchanged his own helmet for a baseball cap and lifted the boy off the bike.

They entered the pub side by side, both immediately heading for the corner table that the locals usually avoided because of the bad light: it had walls on two sides and no direct sunlight from any of the windows, and while old Matthew made the best shepherd's pie, no-one had ever accused him of excessive investments in illumination.

Said man now approached the strangers with two menus and a polite smile. "What can I getcha, fellas?"

"Pie and a glass of water," the man with the menacing aura growled.

_ "Schnitzel und Pommes!" _ the child crowed happily. 

_ "Englisch, Julian!" _ his ...parent? admonished sternly. 

_ "'Tschuldigung,"  _ the boy mumbled.  _ "Ähm _ ... a schnitzel and chips, please. And apple juice!"

Matthew beamed at the boy, who had done passably well albeit with a strong German accent, while his guardian merely gave a curt nod. Leaving the odd little family behind to get the drinks and fix the ordered dishes, he missed their further conversation, which at once returned to German.

"Why do I have to learn English?" the little boy complained in the woe-is-me tone of voice all children master at some point in their lives.

"Do not whine!" the man snapped. The boy turned down his eyes at once and huddled in on himself.

The man sighed and forced his own tense shoulders to relax. Stiffly, he said: "I'm sorry, kid. I will not hurt you. I promised, remember?"

Julian looked up with a little hopeful smile. "So I don't have to learn English, then, sir?"

The man slowly extended his right hand and ruffled the boy's hair in a friendly, careful manner. "You still do, you little punk. You need to know your way around some languages if you want to stick with me. And don't call me 'Sir', that's just ridiculous. I swear by now you're forgetting on purp-" Seeing the mischievous glint in the boy's eyes, he trailed off. "Aw, you little fiend!"

The dastardly challenge to the man's authority was met with a precisely executed, highly effective punitive manoeuvre: Two hands extended with deadly speed and accuracy, fingers digging into skinny ribs to mercilessly tickle the enemy into submission.

When Matthew returned with their drinks, the child was breathlessly flopping on his back on the corner bench, the man playfully threatening to braid his hair like a little girl's unless he begged for mercy, while the boy giggled something that might have been "Never" in German, though to Matthew it simply parsed as a bunch of incoherent sounds of delight. 

  
  



	10. Sokovia

_Sokovia, a few weeks earlier_

"Wait!" Wanda hissed in a low voice and pulled her brother back by the sleeve.

Pietro looked back at her. "What is it?" he whispered back. They hadn't had their powers for long yet, but they were competent enough to escape their handlers for a spell. They'd trained out in the woods all night, practising their teamwork in complete darkness. Both were exuberant with their success, but also exhausted and in need of food and a hot bath. They hoped that their huge step forward in competence would earn them at least forgiveness for leaving unannounced.

"Something is not right," she said. "Our home is compromised."

Pietro looked at the base. "Is it safe for me to go check out?"

Wanda frowned in concentration. "It is not a natural disaster and I notice no chemicals... But there is death, there is blood and broken bones and torn skin, and there is so much cold anger!" She shivered, then pulled herself together. "The danger seems to be human. You are alright to go in. But take care."

"Always." He flashed her a grin, then sped off. A circuit through the facility at a pace that meant he was gone before anyone could even notice he was there, and Pietro returned to Wanda's side. "You are right," he reported, seconds after leaving her. "There's an assassin in there, seriously scowly type, with - you'll need to see it to believe it, but - with  _ an arm made of metal. _ Also, everyone else, and I mean  _ everyone,  _ is dead."

They shared a grim look. "So we are homeless again," Wanda concluded. She looked close to tears.

"How about we take this guy down," Pietro said grimly even as he laid an arm around her shoulders. "Your magic and my speed together should do it. We are strong now. No-one gets to just steal our life from us like that and walk away, not now."

Wanda wiped at her eyes, then nodded sharply, once. "I will go into his mind," she said grimly. So far, she had only practised this skill on Pietro, but she had done it often enough to feel confident she would not be noticed.

At that moment, the man who had killed their new family exited the base and headed for the back of the building. Wanda veiled herself and approached him from behind.

Pietro watched closely - she was not veiled from him. At first, everything seemed to be going smoothly. Wanda presumably read the man's reasons for the slaughter he had committed, maybe also a bit of his background and hopefully a lot about his fighting skills and the best way to influence him towards killing himself so they did not need to get their hands dirty. The man just kept walking as she read him, not noticing a thing.

But then Wanda started shaking, falling behind, her hands stretching out as though trying to physically keep a hold on his thoughts. With an audible gasp, she she lost hold of the connection and staggered a step back. 

Pietro immediately ran to catch her. Before the dangerous man had fully turned around to find the source of the gasp, they were already back in the woods, well hidden from his murderous eyes.

"What did you see, sister?" Pietro asked, concerned.

"He is not bad," Wanda replied shakily. "But Hydra is."

Pietro just looked at her, disbelief written clearly in his features.

"It is true," Wanda insisted. "I have seen his memories. Memories like no other man's. They are bent and torn and fragmented; and all of that, Hydra did to him. I have seen his soul. It is hidden behind a veil of blood and death, but it still shines brightly. He is a good man, Pietro, but Hydra made him into a monster!" She broke down and cried in his arms.

Pietro hugged her fiercely to his chest, keeping a lookout over the silent forest in case the twisted man came for them.

It took a long time for Wanda to calm down enough to tell Pietro about all she had seen. How Hydra had taken a loyal soldier, tortured him and turned him into a killer who did not even hesitate to kill old friends. Here, a wry smirk appeared in the corners of her mouth. "He may have killed Tony Stark's parents, Pietro. But he doesn't even know it. The memory is there, but it is one of many that are torn loose and flapping in the wind of his mind's agonized howling. But if I read it right, he did it."

"Oh," Pietro said. That was... an odd thought. Maybe half an hour ago, he'd been prepared to kill this man who had torn apart their world for a second time. But now he wasn't sure what to make of him at all.

"They used to be friends, or at least comrades in arms," Wanda continued. "But Hydra sent him out to kill them and so he did."

Pietro was silent. What an awful thing to do to a person.

"The good thing is," Wanda explained, "that Tony Stark is very interested in finding this man. And it appears that they are both in some way attached to Captain America. Wherever this man goes, Captain America will eventually find him. And Stark will likely follow."

Pietro felt a slow smile start on his face. "So we follow the man, and Stark will come right to us, far from his tower and its protections."

"Maybe even far from the other Avengers but for the Captain," Wanda added, a bit wistfully.

"Let us not become naively optimistic," Pietro admonished. Still, it was a good thought. "Where is he headed next?"

"Prague."

* * *

"This is taking longer than expected," Pietro groused. "Why couldn't he have made up his mind where to go next  _ before _ going after this last one?"

"Hush," Wanda shushed him, "I need to concentrate."

They were sitting in a café in Berlin, two blocks down from where the Winter Soldier was currently murdering one of the doctors who had tortured him in the past. The twins had followed the fearsome assassin around, always easily picking up his trail because so far, there'd always been a very clear idea of where he was headed in his mind before he even left. Wanda was getting better every day at following his thoughts from ever greater distances. Like with her brother, she was slowly getting attuned to him.

Neither of them lost much sleep over the lives they watched being ended. Hydra had not treated the twins kindly, but they had both accepted the hurt for the chance to make Stark suffer. After what Wanda had seen in the Soldier's mind, however, the twins were no longer sure they'd ever have gotten that chance, much less been allowed to act as free agents. Hydra liked their order.  _ Order through pain.  _ Not really something they wanted any part of. 

Hydra would have betrayed them. Would have used them as weapons to strike where Hydra wanted, then made them disappear when they were no longer needed. Both the Winter Soldier's conscious thoughts and the scattered remains of other memories, both deeper and more recent ones, made Wanda sure of it.

"This one is special," Wanda told Pietro quietly. They were sitting at an out-of-the-way table and the café was noisy around them; they should be safe from curious ears. Still, better to be cautious. "She made some recent adjustments to the Chair that made the wipes more effective - and 100% more painful."

Pietro shut up. Wanda knew he was as disturbed by what Hydra had done to their prize assassin as she was. Right now, the man was torturing a woman right in her own living room, and while it was gruesome to watch through his eyes, Wanda also felt a fierce satisfaction in seeing her suffer for her sins. She supposed that made her a bad person - after all, the woman had never done  _ her _ any harm and yet here she was, enjoying her suffering -, but she had spent so much time living in Bucky Barnes's brain by now that she sometimes felt his remembered pain as though it was her own. 

Not that she'd ever tell Pietro about that.

Suddenly, her eyes narrowed. Barnes had gotten distracted by a noise that shouldn't have been there. He had watched the apartment for three days prior to acting, and no-one but the solitary Frau Doktor Kimmich had exited or entered. The fallen doctor had no pets and never had any guests, living a lonely life dedicated to Hydra.

Pietro looked up from studying the local newspaper in alarm as Wanda gasped and sat up straight, hands clutching at the edge of the table.

"She has a child!"

They were both stunned by this new development. They'd never seen the Winter Soldier murder a child, but they both knew he was entirely capable of it. It felt okay for them to stand by and do nothing while the man destroyed the lives of those who had destroyed his. But innocent children? They had to draw the line somewhere, else they were no better than Stark himself.

"We have to stop him," Wanda said and Pietro nodded. They quickly walked up to the counter, paid for their drinks with some money Pietro had lifted from an American tourist in passing, and headed over to the apartment building. The front door was unlocked and they slid in unnoticed. 

But when they were approaching Doktor Kimmich's apartment on the third floor, Wanda hesitated. She cocked her head, shook it in disbelief, then gestured for Pietro to keep walking, past the door and up the stairs so their steps did not audibly stop in front of Kimmich's door.

"Are we too late?" he hissed, grimly.

"No." Her face was carefully blank as though she was afraid of what would happen if she let her control slip. "Let's take the elevator down and get out of here, I'll tell you then."

They did as she'd proposed, left the house and started walking down the street.

"Have you got our next location?" Pietro asked, looking back over his shoulders, worried.

"Yes. Also, I believe he will be easier to follow from now on." Wanda slowly let the smirk spread over her face until the giggles broke loose. "He's just adopted a child!"

"Uh." Pietro looked at her askance. "I could have sworn you just said the Winter Soldier adopted a child."

"Yes," Wanda said, "isn't that great?" She giggled some more. It was partly relief for not having to witness the death of a small child, partly the absurdity of the situation. "See, it's like this. That Hydra doctor was a real piece of work. She placed her career far, far above personal matters. When she was told that she had accidentally gotten pregnant and due to some hereditary condition an abortion might kill her, she chose to have the child, but hide it. Women with child are automatically seen as inferior within the ranks of Hydra." She scoffed. "So she took some time off - ostensibly for research - and had her child, but never let the poor boy out of the house. He's lived to the age of seven and never seen anything beyond the walls of her apartment... Poor little one." She sighed heavily. "So I suppose it's not surprising the child was afraid of the stranger coming in. It _is_ surprising, however, that he feared and hated his mother enough to trust said stranger to help him through a sudden panic attack, even though he had just seen the man _kill_ his mother."

"Seriously?"

"Yes." Then she brightened up. "What surprised me more, however, was that the Soldier actually _helped_ him, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Saw the kid struggling to draw breath, reaching out for help, and then the Winter Soldier went and hugged the child. He held him until the attack subsided. And it did, even though the man helping the boy was the same man who had murdered his mother."

"That is... odd."

Wanda's face scrunched up and Pietro waited while she dug some more through the Winter Soldier's fragmented memories. When she resurfaced, Wanda wore a soft smile. "You know, growing up, the man had three younger sisters, on top of taking care of a sickly baby Captain America. I imagine for Bucky Barnes, it was pure instinct to help a struggling child."

"Do you ever want children?" Pietro asked quietly.

"I don't know," Wanda replied. "I never really thought about it."

"I think I do," Pietro said. "Children are..." He helplessly spread his hands.

"You'd be good with children," Wanda said, her eyes warm. Teasingly, she added: "Also, you'd be quick enough to keep up with an entire gaggle of them."

Pietro laughed. "Probably. But you'd have me beat: you'd already know in advance what mischief they are about to get into."

Wanda frowned. "I don't think I should use it like that. As, well, constant surveillance. A child needs some space for themselves. If not in their heads, where else can they be free to be who they want to be and not be judged?"

"There is that. ...You don't seem to worry about that with me or Barnes, though." The corners of his mouth were still quirked up; he wasn't angry, just making an observation.

"Barnes is... necessary. I don't like it, but we do need him, and he would not cooperate if we just asked. You - I have your consent," she primly declared, "and you are of age. So that makes you the one child I may spy upon as much as I want." Her nose wrinkled. "But if you ever do initiate child-producing acts, you can be sure I will be out of your head in a heartbeat."


	11. Ice Cream Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Another short chapter. Tomorrow's will be a bit longer again.

Hermione was perched on the bed of her little room in the student apartment she shared with three other girls. She really tried to get through the book that she had to read for her literature class. If she did not know better she would think the book must be jinxed. No matter how hard she tried to concentrate, the words began to blur and form the image of a certain someone, who apparently had other plans tonight and also insisted that she not neglect her studies on his account. She glanced at her phone. “Ring,” she thought, “or beep or whatever.” Ugh, she hated to be like this and then again she loved it. Never had anyone so occupied her mind... and admittedly she had never experienced this kind of chemistry either.

Aidan was so different than all the guys she had ever known. Smart and sophisticated, charming, handsome, mysterious... There was something about him. Some kind of magic, but not like an ordinary wizard. She pensively twisted a lock of hair. She had given herself the 3 years of college to take a step back and think about what she wanted. To fully immerse herself in a life in the magical world and take up training at Hogwarts or the ministry (both had offered) or maybe live a mostly muggle life. After all that had happened she needed some time off. Trying to be an ordinary girl just for a while. Have a real college experience.

But frankly she missed the magical world and when Aidan came along, the mysterious aura that surrounded him and that she could not quite put a finger on was part of why she was attracted to him. She strongly suspected, even hoped, that he knew what she was but they never openly talked about it. Aside from the occasional hint they just pretended to be like every other man and woman. Well, if they got more serious, they would eventually have to show their true selves. But Hermione did not want to to wait that long. She was curious. But how could she find out? She had already listed all the magical creatures she knew and were plausible. None fitted. Daywalking vampire was the closest fit, but nobody was quite sure those existed. Maybe a little trip to the Hogwarts library was due.

She took up her phone once again and sighed. No new messages. She so wanted to find out what Aidan was. He was so hard to read! Her thoughts were interrupted by the doorbell.

“Hermione, it’s for you,” her flatmate Mikey shouted, her voice excited. 

Hermione jumped off the bed. She was in jammies but did not care much. When she stepped into the corridor she saw a huge bouquet hover through the door, the delivery guy barely visible. Her heart skipped a beat. If those were from Aidan it would be so much better than a text … She blushed and stepped closer, her heart hammering now.

“Are you Miss Granger? Some gentleman really seems to like you,” he said with a cockney accent and winked. Hermione looked into his face. There was something strangely familiar …

“Do I know you? Maybe from university?”

“Nah, never seen you before. But maybe I will remember you now,” he retorted and extended his open palm.

Hermione tipped him generously and took the huge bunch of flowers. There was a little card attached to it. Even before she could read it she smelled Aidan's cologne.

When she turned to retreat to her room she was flushed and overwhelmed – and confronted with three very curious faces who had other plans. Her flatmates dragged her into the kitchen and forced her to tell the whole story over lots of ice cream. She gladly told them everything, just minus all the really interesting supernatural stuff.

Meanwhile outside the delivery boy walked down the street, chuckling, and let his disguise fade. He so enjoyed role playing! The look on Hermione’s face had been priceless. Nothing like a bit of old fashioned courtship to win a modern woman’s heart. Fuck, if he ever got bored he should start a business as a dating coach... but right now he was busy and enjoying himself enormously. He had to be careful. Even while being distracted she had sensed something. This just made the game more interesting, he told himself and tried hard to kill the affection that was growing in his heart.


	12. First Impressions

"When they arrive, can we come and watch?" Potter asked, his curiosity more restrained than his partner's, who was leaning forward in his chair so much he nearly fell out of it.

"Have 'auror apprentices' nothing better to do on a weekday?" Sherlock asked, carefully applied sarcasm hiding his own curiosity. What  _ did  _ aurors do?

"We have practical exams next week, so they gave us this week off to prepare. Not that we need it. We're both pretty good at the practical side of things." He smiled at his partner, who gave him a thumbs-up in return.

Sherlock saw John sit up and throw him a significant look. Not that he needed the prodding. He narrowed his eyes at Potter. "How about we let you sit in on our welcome meeting, and in turn John and I get to watch your practical exams?"

Potter and ...Westley?... looked at each other. "Deal!"

* * *

So here Harry was, standing in some top secret military facility wearing a borrowed suit (his line of work did not often call for formal muggle attire) and feeling more out of place in the muggle world than ever before. Ron looked even worse off than him. Not only were the arms and legs on his own suit at least two sizes too short, but he also had so much less knowledge of the muggle world. Harry had seen his wide eyes as they were led through the complex to the landing pad, and paid close attention in order to shush Ron before he could ask any questions. The corridors were sparsely populated, but the wrong question could still draw unwanted attention to their non-muggle status. No need to have another obliviation negotiation with Mr. Just-A-Minor-Position Holmes.

They only waited a few minutes before a plane unlike any Harry had ever seen touched down precisely on the mark in the middle of the landing pad. The Avengers had arrived.

First out of the plane was Captain America. He was in civilian clothing, but that face and, heavens, that physique, were still quite unique. Harry had heard of the superserum, of course he had. Who hadn't, these days? And yet the primary thought that ran through his mind at his first close-up view of Captain Rogers was: "What does someone like that eat for breakfast? A couple of ostrich eggs and half a cow??"

Hot on the Captain's heels was a man who must be the Falcon; not quite as iconic (nor quite as buff, though he still had some impressive muscles), but easily identified by the way he stuck to Captain America’s side. Also, by those teeth that could rival Hermione’s before fourth year - although for some reason on him, it just looked… adorable? Harry had spent some time on the computer recently, looking up the Avengers, their pictures, facts and legends about their abilities, their history, and things they were famous for besides the Battle of New York. He'd thought he knew a lot about them from the press and from random bits of gossip overheard from friends and colleagues, but clearly the stories didn't do them justice. These people were so much more than just a bunch of men in tights who were in the right place at the right time; they were legitimate heroes. 

And a god. Harry admitted he felt curious and anxious about that one in equal measure.

Right on cue, the Norse god exited the jet plane, and Harry heard Ron whisper: "Blimey, mate. You ever been this close to a god? Or a real-life hero?

Harry couldn't suppress an amused chuckle. "Ron. You  _ are _ a real-life hero."

"Oh." Harry could hear the blush in his friend's voice. "Right."

"Also," Harry heard Sherlock Holmes mutter deprecatingly from his left, "Captain America has enhanced hearing. You might want to remember that."

Now Harry was blushing alongside Ron. He looked up and saw Captain America looking at them inquisitively. He blushed harder. Shit. Captain America was curious about why Ron might be a hero. That was very far from being a good thing.

They were saved by Tony Stark exiting the jet, already talking a mile a minute and drawing everyone's attention like a magnet. "- not that I'm complaining, but I thought England was famous for its constant rain. Yet every time I come here, there's sunshine and warmth and clichéd birdsong. What's up with that?"

"You must not come here very often, then," Ron apparently couldn't help but observe. The first four Avengers were now within regular human speaking distance so he was heard without having to shout. Harry didn't need to look at Ron to know that he was flushing his usual clashing red upon realizing he had blurted out something so inane in front of the infamous Sherlock Holmes and several American muggle superheroes.

Stark seemed to take it with good humour, though. "British sarcasm, I like it." Looking around, his eyes settled on the Holmes brothers and John. "Ah, and lovely British celebrities. Misters Holmes and Watson, I suppose? Oh, and Mister Holmes, of course." He made as if to draw a non-existent hat.

Captain America rolled his eyes and stepped in front of his fellow Avenger. "Mister Holmes," he said to Mycroft, "I apologize for my team mate's antics. We had a long flight."

"Which I could have managed so much faster on my own," Stark grumbled, but Captain America ignored him. Straightening up even more - he was already standing more or less at parade rest -, he continued. "Thank you, Sir, for allowing us to pursue Bu- the Winter Soldier over here. We really appreciate it."

Stark made a mocking kissy face in the background, which Harry found odd until he had a closer look at Captain America's flushed cheeks. Oh.

_Oh._

"Compromised," suddenly came Sherlock Holmes's disgusted voice. "Half of them are emotionally compromised! Mycroft, please do not presume to tell me  _ this _ is our best hope of catching the infamous Winter Soldier.  _ John _ could do better than the lot of them!"

Harry looked over at the detective's partner who seemed not to know if he should feel proud or insulted at Holmes's words, resulting in a mildly bewildered look.

"What do you mean?" Captain America, already tense, said and tensed up even more. Harry imagined the man tensing up just that little bit more and snapping in half under his own tension. He blinked and shook away the strange thought.

"Boring," Holmes complained. "Mister Rogers, surely you don't actually believe you could hide the fact that you are in love with the man you purport to be hunting. No more than Ms. Romanova could hide that she wants to either kill him or bed him. Mister Stark -" Sherlock breathed in deeply as though the wind would tell him all the answers. "- you lean more towards the killing side of the equation, which means you and Mister Rogers should definitely not be on the same team during this mission. Or really, on any team at all that acts in the name of Her Royal Majesty's government and justice."

Harry thought he heard the older Holmes mutter a sarcastic "Sherlock, I am so proud."

"So that leaves the Misters Banner, Odinson, Barton and Wilson. As everyone knows - and from what I see here, the newspapers are for once correct in their assessment -, Barton will follow where Romanova goes, while Wilson will stick to Rogers like a baby bird to his mummy. Meaning the only ones not either following an emotionally compromised leader or being emotionally compromised themselves are Doctor Banner and the Norse god." Holmes made no attempt to hide the disbelief in his voice as he said 'Norse god'.

Sherlock Holmes was even better at keeping everyone's attention focused on himself than Tony Stark, and Harry was as amused as he was horrified at the way this first meeting was developing. Teamwork was very obviously not either group's forte.

Meanwhile, Sherlock wasn't anywhere near finished with his assessment of Earth's Mightiest Heroes. "Now Banner here obviously has a good head on his shoulders, but his crippling self-doubt makes him unsuited as a leader. Thor Odinson, on the other hand..." He sniffed, a sneer blooming on his face like a particularly obnoxious flower. "Mister Odinson is so inebriated I wonder how he even made it off that quinjet."

The Norse god seemed to take exception to the accusation. "You dare ins-sult me, ridddiculous li'l man? Knnnow you not that I, Thor, am a god amongs' you-humans?"

"Blimey, Holmes is right!" Ron said next to Harry. "The guy is totally shitfaced."

"How dare you!" Thor roared. "Didst you think your magic would protec' you from my might?" Suddenly, the famous hammer was in his hand as he stomped over towards Ron. Shit! What did Thor know about magic, and what was he planning to do to Ron? He looked seriously pissed.

Harry saw Captain America move in their direction to intervene, but he knew from the Norse god's speed, fuelled by anger as it was, that the Captain would not reach them in time. And Ron himself was just standing there in awe, entirely unappreciative of the very real risk of being smashed by Thor's hammer. Already composing the apology to Susan in his head, Harry drew his wand and aimed it at the hammer. "Expelliarmus!"

Thor uttered a startled grunt as Mjolnir was ripped from his hand and went hurtling towards Harry.

To everyone unaware of magic, it must have looked as though Thor had thrown the hammer at him, for several of the Avengers gave yells of "Thor!", "Don't!" and one sad "Aw, hammer. Now they'll kick us out."

Harry, however, had another problem just then. He suddenly realized that he now had an unstoppable legendary hammer flying full tilt at his chest.

"Oh fuck."

He stared at the approaching hammer for what seemed like a lifetime but was probably only a few milliseconds, then acted on reflex.

He caught the hammer.


	13. A Worthy Leader

Stunned silence reigned.

"That... is not supposed to happen, is it?" Captain America spoke up doubtfully.

"You." Thor's chest was heaving, his eyes bugging out in disbelief. "You're NOT WORTHY!"

"Dude," Barton interrupted, "looks to me like he is."

The Black Widow raised one impressed eyebrow at Harry. Meanwhile, Thor was very obviously losing his shit, looking up at the sky and asking in his booming, inebriated voice why his father hated him so.

"Erm." Harry slowly lowered the hammer. "I'm sorry?"

"Fascinating," Sherlock Holmes's voice cut across the scene. "Utterly fascinating. Only one worthy of ruling the realm of Asgard is supposed to be able to pick up Thor's Hammer. No ordinary mortal should ever fit the description, according to the legend. It follows then, Mister Potter, that you are no ordinary mortal." His expression brightened. "But of course, we already knew that. So is it because of your special abilities that you are able to lift the hammer, or is it because you have died and thus no longer count as a regular 'mortal'?"

Harry blanched. He suddenly had a very clear idea of why he was able to snatch that hammer from the air and hold it. It took all of his mental fortitude not to reach for the stone in his trousers' secret, magically hidden pocket.

He wasn't sure how much he trusted either the Holmes brothers or the Avengers. Neither group need ever hear a single word about the Deathly Hallows, ever.

Even worse, Sherlock was now looking speculatively at Ron and opening his mouth, likely to ask the other wizard of his acquaintance to try and take hold of the hammer.

In an utterly ridiculous attempt at subterfuge that fooled 0% of the present company, Harry dropped the hammer to the ground, saying "Oops, can't hold on to it. Must have been a fluke, right?" He followed the lame excuse with a nervous chuckle.

"Riiight..." said Tony Stark, looking up from some hologram displayed above his wrist watch. Then he turned to Sherlock Holmes with a wolfish grin. "My turn."

Harry had a bad feeling about this even before Stark started talking, just as fast and as aloof as Holmes had ever been. "Clearly, you feel a need to disparage our American soldiers in order to make your British troopers look less pathetic. That bit of acting by shy guy over there was sub-par, and let's not even talk about his partner's suit, my tailor would have a heart-attack if I ever showed up in anything this ill-fitted." He and Mycroft Holmes both glanced at Ron with equal mues of distaste while Ron, ears burning an angry red, quietly tried to sink into the floor. Luckily for him, Stark was already moving on to his next target. "But at least these two are clean as far as the internet knows. You, however -" he turned towards the Holmes brothers, "you seem to live in a web of lies so thickly spun that even you won't ever find the way out."

Sherlock Holmes scoffed, which might have been a mistake as Stark now focused exclusively on him. "Don't believe me? Well, why don't you ask your dearest sibling over there about your family? Did he ever tell you that you have not one brother, but two? Although since you obviously think you know all about your older brother's business, I am sure he's already told you about the older brother who looks just like you, hasn't he?" He glanced down at his watch for a moment. "Facial scan is a 100% match. I guess he aged a little better than you did. Surprising, since he has died several dozen times according to the more arcane gossip. Although, maybe lying to your best friend for three years weighs a bit heavier on the soul than stupidly playing the hero?"

Harry saw Sherlock Holmes draw back from the obvious shock he'd felt at Stark's words and regroup for a counter-attack. "Well, if anyone would know, it would have to be you, Stark. After all, I hear you hold the world's leading position in both stupidly playing the hero and lying to your closest friends, isn't that right?"

Harry could see John Watson's spine stiffening up with every word that was spoken, and at these last barbs, the man's tenuous hold on his temper seemed to break irrevocably. "ENOUGH!" he yelled, making several 'heroes' jump with his sudden outburst.

Both Sherlock Holmes and Stark stopped mid-rant and gaped at Watson.

"Enough," the man repeated. "Mister Stark, I'd appreciate it if you didn't wave the most difficult years of my life around like a red flag to a bull. Sherlock, when it comes to stupidly playing the hero, you absolutely have no leg to stand on. Everyone else, why do you let those two go on?  _ Everyone _ here must know that's never a good idea with either of them. Sherlock I know from personal experience, and frankly I don't need more than a couple of minutes to figure out that Mister Stark can be just as obnoxious. Like two peas in a pod, honestly."

Stark and Holmes stared at each other in horror at the doctor's comparison. Watson, unimpressed by their antics, continued dressing down the entire gathering. "You people are supposed to be some of the finest fighters and thinkers on this planet. You come together to stop a dangerous rogue killer with unclear motivations and an underage hostage, and  _ this _ is how you spend your time?" He suddenly turned around to the older Holmes. "Mycroft, please tell me that none of this ridiculous nonsense is paid by my taxes?"

Mycroft heaved a deep sigh, one hand rubbing tiredly at the frown lines above his nose.

Stark was smirking widely as he fiddled with his wrist watch, obviously digging out more dirt on the Holmeses. "Would you look at that," he hummed in satisfaction. "It appears that you, Mister Holmes -" he looked at Mycroft, then glanced down at his wrist again... and froze. "What?"

"Tony?" Bruce Banner asked in a worried tone. "What is it?"

"I lost my connection to JARVIS."

Harry had read of the billionaire's AI, it came up in any number of articles about the Avengers. But he didn't quite get why everyone on the Avengers team froze at Stark's words.

"Is the tower under attack?" the Black Widow asked.

"No, I don't think so," Tony said, frowning as he threw out a hand in a dramatic gesture. Harry watched, fascinated, as the famous Iron Man suit assembled around him. There was a tense silence for a few moments while Stark presumably communicated with the tech in his suit. Harry used the chance to observe everyone's reactions. The Avengers looked nervous enough that lesser humans in their place might have been biting their nails; Watson and both Holmes brothers seemed slightly bemused. Then Harry's gaze fell upon the older Holmes's assistant who stood half hidden behind her employer and was busily typing away on her Blackberry. She'd done so the last time they had met, as well, even while introducing herself to him as 'Maria'. Her half-smile had told him the name was fake. Just as the smile she now wore told him that she was very, very pleased with herself.

His eyes widened.

He looked back at Stark just in time to see the man burst from his suit in a right snit. "Who's been messing with my tech?!"

Maria calmly spoke up. "Someone attempted to hack into the Secret Service's database for information on Mister Holmes. So rude. I could not allow that."

Stark gaped at her. "You stopped my AI while interfacing with a fucking  _ Blackberry?!" _

She smiled at him innocently.

Stark gaped some more. Then he blinked, slowly coming to some conclusion. His face lit up. "You have to come work for me! I'll pay you double what he does! Triple! Ten times!!! You beautiful woman, I have to have you on my team!" He walked toward her with open arms and a slightly manic grin on his face.

Maria calmly told him: "Thank you, Mister Stark, but I must decline. I am quite happy with my position serving my Queen and country."

Stark stopped, cocking his head and winking at her. "Are you really sure I cannot tempt you?" Harry choked. Now the man was flirting!

Maria stepped back behind her employer, still typing. "I am very sorry, Mister Stark, but my loyalty cannot be bought. Also, should you move any closer, I will not hesitate to file a harassment suit."

Stark remained standing there looking a bit foolish with his arms slowly sinking down by his sides. "Well alright," he finally said, "but could you at least give me back JARVIS?"

"If you teach him better manners," she said primly.

"Yeah, sure, whatever," Stark said, shoulders drooping. His wrist band pinged. Brightening up, he started talking into it fast and near-silently. He broke it off only a few sentences later, looking mighty relieved, yet also like a scolded little kid. Harry wondered if the AI had made some complaints.

Mycroft Holmes cleared his throat and all eyes drifted back to him. "It appears to me that we are at an impasse," he began. "We will need to work together on this case and should, ideally, have a single leader whom all concerned parties recognize. My brother is unwilling to work under the command of anyone on your team, while you are obviously hesitant to trust me or Sherlock to lead." He met all of the Avengers' eyes who looked back at him impassively - with the exception of Barton, who seemed entertained by the whole ordeal and was grinning broadly where he was walking around on his hands in the background. Harry'd heard that the man had grown up with a circus or something, but still... He shook his head and refocused on Mycroft Holmes, curious as to the solution the man would propose.

"We have a man with us, though, who except for his inability to lie convincingly has been deemed  _ worthy _ of leadership by an impartial artefact."

All eyes were now on Harry, considering, weighing, judging.

His face burned. "Er. What?"

He saw Captain America give a ponderous nod. "Mister Holmes, I believe you are correct."

"No!" Harry barked. "Look, I haven't even finished my schooling yet, I cannot possibly lead Sherlock Holmes and the Avengers and... and..." He was floundering and Ron, the bastard, was just beaming at him like this was the best thing ever.

He cast around frantically for anything, anyone to save him. He caught sight of John Watson who looked just as surprised as he did himself. "Watson!" he blurted out, reaching for straws. "What about him, huh? Mister Stark didn't say anything bad about him either, and he has much more experience with leadership than I do!"

"D.A.," Ron coughed.

"Shut up!" Harry hissed back. "No seriously," he then continued out loud, "Mister Watson has been an army doctor, he's disciplined, hard-working and knows his way around a mundane battlefield. He'll be much more useful to you than I could possibly be."

He didn't see Banner's frown and the Black Widow's speculative look at his mention of "mundane" battlefields. As opposed to what?

What he did see was Watson now looking like he himself felt - deer in headlights was too mild an expression, really.

Stark, however, was already communicating with his wrist watch again - presumably staying far away from the Secret Service's secret servers, this time; but there must be plenty of information about Watson freely available on the internet anyway, surely Stark would find something damning any minute now.

"Watson..." Stark mumbled, "John Watson..." Then his head shot up and he looked straight at Watson for the first time since their arrival. "Wait."

Watson raised an eyebrow.

"John Watson?" Tony asked, "John Hamish Watson? The voice on my left that kept me entertained with stories of his exploits while one of his colleagues sewed me back together after my escape from the Ten Rings?  _ Three-continents Watson??" _

Watson's mouth twisted wryly. "The one and only."

Stark beamed. "I vote yes!"


	14. Captain Watson

John looked around their flat with wide eyes. The wizards had _teleported home_ and the Avengers had left for their hotel after an intense - and at times unbelievably surreal - meeting the other night, but traces of their presence still lingered: a few glasses and tea cups standing around an empty whiskey bottle, Barton's boot prints on the top book shelf, the hole in the wall that Captain America's - _Call me Steve_ \- fist had left after Iron Man - _genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist -_ had teased him about his crush on the Winter Soldier. Steve had apologized and offered to pay for the repairs, of course, but Sherlock had just waved him off and asked him more questions about James Buchanan Barnes. 

To John's immense confusion (and secret gratification), everyone had accepted that he be their official leader just on the word of Tony Stark and one Harry Potter. It was eerie. But he felt he'd done a fairly good job of managing the discussion and keeping them on topic - well, admittedly, more like dragged them back on point after the discussion had left it to go careening off on tangents to Siberia one time, John F. Kennedy the next, and Stark's AI a third.

That's also where the surreality came in. Stark had switched on a speaker in his wrist watch and suddenly 'JARVIS' was participating in the discussion like a regular person (if the term 'regular person' could be applied to a mind as brilliant and efficient as Sherlock and Stark combined). It had gotten even weirder when Potter got permission from his superior to allow these American superhumans in on the secret of magic and the Black Widow had just raised an eyebrow and calmly asked: "What secret?"

Parts of the discussion had been ridiculous, while others had been frighteningly intense. It appeared that several people on the Avengers' team had very strong opinions concerning the Winter Soldier - very strong, _diametrically opposed_ opinions. By the time they left for their hotel, they had at least agreed to a non-lethal yet cautious approach, which was more than John had dared to hope for, going in. 

He'd fallen into bed and slept like a stone until late this morning. This was an unusual luxury on a regular Wednesday. But Mycroft had made it very clear that for the time being, John was on  _ his _ payroll and not allowed to go 'play nurse' - the condescending, smug arse. So John got to sleep in, and wake up questioning his sanity and the veracity of his memories of the previous night. But no sooner had he entered their living room than he already found proof: strands of long, blond hair on the couch cushions, scattered notes and diagrams on the coffee table and... the turtle that Potter had transformed their ashtray into. 

Huh.

After two cups of coffee, John felt better equipped to deal with the day. He fixed himself a light breakfast, fed the turtle some lettuce and sat down in front of his laptop to type up his notes and work on a strategy that would prevent Stark from killing Barnes even while Rogers was hugging the stuffing out of the man, never mind the previous night's compromise both men had grudgingly agreed to. It had been a tad bit too grudging on both their parts for John's peace of mind.

Of course, just when John had settled in and gotten ready to be really productive, a noise from Sherlock's room distracted him. A moment later, the man himself came staggering out, holding out his phone to John with a look of utter distaste. "It's for you," he said curtly before retreating to his bedroom again and slamming the door.

"Hello?" John said, nonplussed.

_ "John,"  _ Mycroft's voice greeted him. Ah, that explained Sherlock's annoyance - in addition to the fact that the call had probably woken him up, despite it already being 11 a.m. 

_ "I have a confirmed sighting of the Winter Soldier,"  _ Mycroft said and John immediately sat at attention, fingers poised over his keyboard. 

Twenty minutes later, John was treated to the utterly foreign sight of a quinjet alighting in the little park down the road. "You sure you don't want to come?" he'd asked Sherlock's door on the way out. A muffled sound of denial had answered him. "Your loss," John had said and left the flat. Now he climbed into the quinjet and tried not to feel like a hobbit going on a great adventure with a bunch of muscular beings each of whom stood at least head and shoulders taller than him.

Running around with Sherlock chasing criminals all over London had gotten him into all manner of unusual situations - The Woman and Buckingham Palace came to mind -, not to mention he'd ridden in all kinds of aircraft while in the army; but this time, he was going on the hunt for a superhuman assassin with a team of enhanced humans and a couple of magic users. And he was supposed to be their leader?

Weird did not quite cover it.

John was distracted from his nervous anticipation by the rising volume of Steve Rogers's phone call.

"...drunk already this early in the day?!" the man was shouting. "Jesus, Thor, did you even stop to sleep since we left you at the bar last night or have you just continued binging straight through until morning?"

John was mildly entertained and a lot disturbed by Thor's vicious reply, the god's voice loud enough that John could make out the words on the other side of their transport.

_ "Do not mock my grief, Steven,"  _ Thor's voice boomed out of the tiny phone in the Captain's large hand.  _ "Had the serum not neutered your joy in alcohol, I have no doubt you would have put my drinking to shame when you were first recovered from the ice, even though you dropped your mate off a cliff decades ago while I have only just lost my brother!" _ His voice turned very heavy on the last word. 

John saw Steve visibly struggle not to throw his phone against the wall. "Just see that you catch up to us before Scotland." He hung up.

While Rogers was still trying to calm his harsh, angry breathing, a knock sounded from the back of the plane. Moments later, a rather  _ ripe _ god of thunder entered the plane mid-flight, only to immediately collapse on the floor and start snoring. 

"We do work well as a team in battle," Romanoff offered apologetically. John looked at her, stunned. He'd have expected Rogers to make excuses for his team mate, but not the cold and deadly Black Widow.

He became thoughtful. Maybe they  _ did _ make a good team, after all. 

_ "Sobrietus," _ Potter whispered to his right, then:  _ "Scourgify." _

Thor shuddered as though touched by a cold wind, then gave a tiny whimper. The snoring stopped as he turned around and fell into a deeper sleep.

John looked at Potter. "What did you do?"

"Sobering spell. Eh," he blushed, "and something to take the edge off the, you know -" he gestured vaguely towards the prone Norse god - "the odour."

John cautiously took a deeper breath of air, then sighed in relief. "You have my fucking sincere thanks," John said, heartfelt.

"So where exactly are we going?" Potter asked him. "We didn't actually get a briefing."

"Huh," John said. "Does that go for everyone?"

"No," Bruce Banner said from his other side, "I believe we at least know what you do, Doctor Watson." Leaning forward to address Potter around John, he explained: "The Winter Soldier - Barnes," he amended with a look at a still seething Steve Rogers - "was sighted somewhere up in Scotland. Apparently, he's been quickly walking up and slowly coming back down the same road all day, growing more agitated with every iteration. The behaviour was startling enough that the locals eventually took note, especially since that particular road doesn't even lead anywhere."

"That is odd," Potter agreed, a hint of curiosity in his voice.

They rode in silence for a while before Barton brought the quinjet down in a field at the coordinates Mycroft had given John.

It was immediately apparent that the Winter Soldier was gone. It also became clear very quickly that Potter and Weasley had been here before; the moment the men set foot out of the plane and saw some castle ruins in the distance, they started laughing uncontrollably, choking out something that sounded like "hogwash" and … hog's meat?

John shrugged. "Well, let's move it, folks. Stark, can you fly around a bit and see if you find anything? Rogers, you got any idea why your friend might have acted as weird as he did?"

Potter and Weasley cracked up again at his words.

John sighed. It was going to be one of those days.


	15. Date Night

It was a lovely evening in June. Even in London it was dry and warm. Unfortunately this apparently drove the Londoners and the tourists out of their dens and they all seemed to be coming here. So far the day had been great. But now Loki was working hard to hide his growing irritation from a happily grinning Hermione whose arm was around his waist. They were standing in line for a ride on the London Eye.

Humans and their fondness of queues!! Apparently the British were the world-champions regarding this annoying custom. You had to do it in the supermarket, when you wanted a taxi. Just. Fucking. All. The. Time! Well, he would have to bear it. He was pretty sure that if he followed his urge to just skip to the front and intimidate, or, if necessary, kill everyone who so much as frowned at him, it would ruin the date, so … He smiled back at Hermione and tried to focus on the good things.

Hermione seemed to sense a little of it though: “Thanks so much again! I really did not expect this. It’s going to be great.” She gave him a little squeeze. “I wish we could have a cabin to ourselves.”

“Believe me, so do I. I’m glad you like the idea.” Waiting here was still bad, but a little less annoying already. Loki took a look around. Of course in comparison to Asgard, London was not very impressive, but right now it had its charms. The sun had just set but still illuminated a few clouds and made them shine in various shades of purple, pink and light grey. The sky was this lightly-tinted shade of blue of the short time between sunset and night. Across the water Westminster Abbey shone golden and the lights of the city were reflected in the water of the Thames. But nothing impressed him as much as the pretty girl at his side. Now that the sun was gone it became slightly chilly. Loki pulled Hermione tighter against himself: “Are you cold? Do you want my jacket?”

She looked up at him, smiling: “No, I think you keep me warm okay.”

Finally, it was their turn. “A cabin for two, please!” Loki said and gave the ticket guy more money than was necessary.

“Sir, I’m sorry, but we don’t...”

Loki interrupted him mid-sentence. He gave the man an intense stare and in a patient but very commanding tone said: “Yes, you do give us a cabin for two.” Hermione felt a surge of magic touch her that gave her goosebumps. She was too fascinated to protest. No wand, no incantation, nothing. But whatever Aidan had done, it worked! The ticket guy’s expression became empty and he just said: “Very well, Sir!” and waved them through. It was kind of creepy.

“Um…,” she said when they had entered the cabin, wanting to talk about what had just happened, but she was silenced with a long and gentle kiss, and when it was over, they were already well in the sky above London. She decided that any discussion of what had just transpired would have to wait. The view was breathtaking!

For a while they just sat there in silence, she in his arms, and looked at the spectacular view and now and then at each other. “You’re beautiful,” Loki said, his voice hoarse. With a shock he realized that he was not acting. Hermione blushed and looked away shyly. “Nonsense,” she said, but she was obviously pleased. And they kissed again.

Hermione pulled away. “Look, I could kiss you all night, but I’ll never forgive myself if I don’t show you at least a few sites while we’re up here.”

Loki wasn’t in the mood for sightseeing right now. “We could just do this again another time and you show me then,” he whispered in her ear. “You’re more interesting than all of this.” He made an engulfing gesture with his arms. “But I was looking forward to...” Hermione said. Loki frowned playfully. “Very well. Enlighten me! You’ve got three minutes.”

“Well, let’s start right below us with Westminster Abbey and Big Ben right on the other side of the river. Turn north...” All of a sudden Loki began to feel really uneasy. He heard a very faint whizzing noise. More like a vibration in the air, a certain, very familiar frequency. It came closer. He became slightly nervous. If he had been a human, his hands would probably have started sweating. Another unsavoury human thing. But he wasn’t.

And there it was. Loki saw a flash of red and shiny armour speed in their general direction. Oh no! What was Thor doing in Europe? Hopefully not here on his account? Well, probably not, since he was literally dead to him. Whatever the reason, Thor was not going to ruin this for him, Hermione would not see him! In one fluid movement, he spun her around, pulled her close and kissed her again. She gave a little surprised squeak. Cute. And, even better: Thor had passed them. He relaxed a little and stopped the kissing. “Right, where were we?”

“You’re naughty!” Hermione scolded but in a flirty manner. She smiled and her cheeks glowed from the heat of the kiss.

“Oh, you have no idea!” he replied.


	16. Like a Real Human Being

The Soldier and Julian had been rummaging through a few shops in the center of the little seaside town they were staying in. They had bought a few shirts and trousers. When the boy had started his journey on the Winter Soldier’s motorcycle, there had not been time to pack. Now they were walking towards their Bed and Breakfast. Noise and children’s laugher drifted over from a playground across the street. Julian looked over at the scene with longing eyes. Then the boy turned to his guardian and gave him one of those puppy-eyed looks and tugged on his sleeve: “I want to go to the playground! Please!!!”

This had happened a few times now. Julian had been tucked away for most of his life and now that he was out and about, saw all the possibilities, he really, really wanted to run around, play ball, climb on trees – all the things that boys of his age generally liked doing and that he had missed out on.

Up until now, the Soldier had always just shaken his head grimly and urged Julian to hurry on. He considered himself the kind of person (if he still deserved that label) that you did NOT want around kids! But his resistance had already begun to crumble. He really felt sorry for the boy and for killing his mother, even though she had been an evil bitch. And so it came to pass that James Buchanan Barnes, the infamous Winter Soldier, world-class assassin and currently leaving a trail of corpses on his vendetta, found himself on a playground with a happily grinning child by his side. The Soldier was not happy. There were not only children, but parents, too. They could ask questions. It could become awkward.

At first Julian was a bit shy around the other children and stayed with the Soldier. They found a ball that did not seem to belong to anybody and began to play. Suddenly memories of another life flashed through the Soldier's mind. He was little and on the streets of Brooklyn playing ball with a scrawny, blond boy. There was happiness, laughter, friendship.

Whoa! If he hadn’t had enhanced super reflexes Julian’s ball would have hit him right in the face! Barnes quickly shoved the image down into the deep, dark compartment of his subconsciousness from which it had emerged.

Suddenly a little redhead, probably about the same age as Julian, joined them in their game, and once the children were happily playing, the Soldier backed out and stood beside the playing field, deliberately far away from the other parents and read the news on his phone, mostly so nobody would bother him. It did not help. A red-haired woman joined him. She was probably the mother of the boy who played ball with Julian. The Soldier cringed inwardly. Great, just what he needed!

“Hi there!” she said amicably in the typical melodic local accent. “Aren’t the boys getting along just fine?”

“Seems so,” the Soldier said curtly, looking up from his phone only briefly. But the woman didn’t give up so quickly.

“Is your son also going to St. Margarete’s primary?”

“No.”

“You’re not from around here are you? Your accent is American?”

“Yes,” Barnes said. He gave up the notion that the woman would just leave him alone and put his phone in his pocket.

“Oh, you’re on vacation then! How do you like Scotland?”

“It is nice. Bit quirky sometimes,” he replied, thinking of what had happened previously with that village that seemed to have disappeared.

“Yes, quirky it is and beautiful and we’re proud of both!”

Barnes thought that the Scottish lady was nice, despite the fact that he’d rather not talk to her. A thought suddenly entered his mind. What if he just left now with an excuse and did not come back? Would she take care of Julian? He would probably do the boy a favour. He could be safe, in a nice home, with a nice boy to play with. In his line of work having a child with him was really difficult; dangerous, too. He could not just keep him forever. He looked over at Julian who kicked the ball and laughed. Then he seemed to sense that Barnes was watching him and smiled at him across the lawn. Damn it! He shouted: “Well done!” and decided that leaving Julian behind here was not an option.

Soon it was almost evening and the woman and her boy left and so did most of the others. Julian wanted to stay and when they were alone, Barnes showed him how to do pull-ups. Unsurprisingly, Julian could only manage one on his own. But when Barnes lifted him, it worked. Julian giggled enthusiastically and cried: “Again!”, and “Again!” after that. Somehow he never grew tired of trying and being lifted. After the umpteenth time Barnes was really grateful for his metal arm and after a while he really had enough.

“Aren’t you hungry?” he asked Julian hopefully. “That lady told me that our B&B makes the best scones and sandwiches.”

It worked like magic. Julian paused. Then he dropped down on his feet and beamed at Barnes. “Yes, I’m really hungry. I did not notice! Can we have ice-cream on the way?”

“Sure,” Barnes said and smiled. For the first time in a long while he did actually feel like a real human being.


	17. It's Magic!

The morning after the Winter Soldier failed to reach the magical village in Scotland, Wanda came the closest she ever had to making contact.

The Soldier's sleep had been plagued by nightmares. Again and again, Wanda had been ripped from her own dreams by the fierce pain and horror coming through the connection to the Winter Soldier.

_ Barnes, _ she told herself.  _ His name is Barnes.  _

The man had a lot of downtime while stalking his prey, sitting in restaurants with Julian trying not to fidget beside him or - a more recent development - both of them occupying space on a playground, Julian enjoying his new-found freedom and the Soldier fading into the backdrop of watchful, mildly bored parents.

Somewhere along the line, the Winter Soldier had acquired a smartphone and after some initial hangups had figured out how to use it to track current events and read up on the past seventy years. Wanda had kept watch, startling occasionally over her own frappucchino when the Winter Soldier discovered a long lost piece of himself in some historical text that resonated within him like the vibrations of a huge bell struck in an empty room.

And little by little, the man had stopped thinking of himself as "the Soldier" and begun identifying as Barnes. Not quite _Bucky Barnes_ , maybe not yet, maybe not ever, but he accepted that he had once been known as James Buchanan Barnes from Brooklyn, US soldier of the 107th Infantry.

_ 32557038,  _ a cracked, broken voice added in the back of her mind. She had heard the echoes of it in his head so often it sometimes felt as though the memory was her own. 

Barnes's interest had piqued her own and she had passed the spark on to Pietro. Both siblings now possessed smartphones of their own and often spent their days lazing around in a park or on a riverbank, reading up on whatever struck their fancy while Wanda kept a mental eye out on the Winter Soldier.

_Barnes._

The man's mind had become so familiar to her that it took hardly any attention to listen in. In fact, she now often struggled to keep his thoughts  _ out _ , so familiar were they to her and so easy to read. 

Last night, she had paid heavily for that closeness. Every time Barnes startled from his sleep with a groan or a stifled yell, she woke right along. Images invaded her mind of a man peeling off his own face, of fellow soldiers disintegrating in a blinding blue-white light and of falling - falling -

Wanda cringed and cupped her hands more tightly around her extra large cup of coffee. She took it black, trying to rouse herself after the mostly sleepless night. She had only gotten a few hours of shut-eye after Barnes had given up on sleeping entirely and picked up his phone to read in bed. 

Julian had whined a little beside him and, presumably, also finally gotten some sleep.

When the boy woke, though, that was when Wanda was so very, very tempted to go over there and talk to the odd little family.

"Did you sleep okay?" Barnes had asked as he fixed their breakfast.

Julian had made some non-committal, sleepy noise and Barnes had sighed. "I'm sorry, kiddo. Yesterday messed with my head. I know there should be a village right at those coordinates, but something unnatural was keeping me from going there." Wanda could all but hear his teeth gnashing in the frustration that lined his thoughts.

_God, I hate magic!_

The thought was followed by a startling wave of intense distress - from Julian. Apparently, Barnes had voiced his thought and Julian... hadn't taken it well.

Wanda tried not to listen to Julian, but sometimes his emotions and thoughts as perceived by Barnes were hard to ignore. Little by little, she had come to be perceptive to the little boy's mind as well, despite her best efforts. She had never pried into his memories, though. So until this day, she hadn't been aware that he possessed magic.

Now, it was very hard to ignore. Julian's mind and his broken heart were both shouting it to the world for anyone with ears.

Well. Anyone with the metaphysical equivalent, anyway. Wanda couldn't  _ not _ hear him, but Barnes apparently had no idea why Julian didn't seem to have any appetite this morning. He kept fussing and asking concerned questions while Julian kept thinking the same thing over and over:  _ Everyone hates magic. Magic is bad. I'm bad, I'm bad, I'M BAD! _

Separated from the aching little boy by four walls, a busy street, one staircase and a mission that did not allow for contact, Wanda helplessly looked on as Julian resolved to bury his 'freakish powers' that his mother had loathed and that his new dad hated even more.

Never had she been readier to throw in the towel and go right over there and  _ fix this _ . 

She was halfway out of her seat and headed out the door when Pietro stopped her. "Sister," he said. Just that.

She stopped and looked at him for a long time. They had both changed since they left Hydra, she thought. They had seen more of the world, learned about other cultures, other languages; and they were now starting to see the bigger picture around everything that had happened to them.

They both still hated Stark, though. And until they got their revenge, there could be no deviating from their chosen path. 

It was a close thing, but in the end, she returned to her seat and sank back down with a heavy, world-weary sigh.

_ Once this is all over, _ she promised herself,  _ I will take care of you, little one. Never fear, Julian. _


	18. The Morning After

The next morning, a very tired, tousled, fully dressed and very happy Hermione tried to sneak into her room past the kitchen, where Lilly and Liz were just having breakfast. They basically dragged her in and marched her to a chair.

“How was it?” Lilly asked while Liz was handing her a cup of coffee.

“It was great!!” Hermione said. “A great day, and then, just after sunset, we took a ride on the London Eye! So romantic.”

“Wait what? The London Eye? Yesterday? Did you see him?”

“See whom?”

“Thor, silly! Well, of course you did not yet have time to check your phone today, I guess, or any media at all, huh?”

Hermione’s spine stiffened and she shook her head slowly. Thor, one of the AVENGERS! A superhero or, some said, even a god. And then a very disconcerting thought hit her. What if Aidan was one of …. those beings?

She did her best to keep her composure and quickly left the kitchen and her giggling flat mates. Once in her room, she sank down on the bed and thought about the implications of what she had just heard. She had never really considered that Aidan could be – what, exactly? A superhero, demigod? Something otherworldly? That would explain why he did not want to tell her. Maybe he thought that she would not believe him? Wouldn’t it be great if he was a superhero? But she had an inkling that he wasn’t exactly … heroic? No, that wasn’t it. Maybe not exactly a role model? Had questionable ethics? She could not put her finger on it.

Why were the Avengers in London anyway? She needed more information. Hermione grabbed her laptop and dove into the web. She was so absorbed that she didn’t even notice the sparrow that sat on her windowsill and watched her with a curiously cocked head. It didn’t take her long to find interesting information on the Avengers, Thor in particular and his brother Loki. His abilities! And a real trickster. 

“ _You’re naughty!”_

“ _Oh, you have no idea!”_

Their conversation echoed in her mind. A dark suspicion started to form. No, Aidan couldn’t be... A sick feeling was spreading in her stomach at the thought. With a heavy mind, she picked up her phone. 

* * *

“Wham!” Splinters of wood flew through the air as the table hit the wall. Loki stood in the corner of the room, where the table had also been until very recently, breathing heavily. A vein on his forehead throbbed and his hands were clenched into fists at his sides. The mayhem of bits of breakfast and shards of various dishes that surrounded him was at a stark contrast with the conservative but elegant interior of his apartment. He hated the media! They had ruined his breakfast.

Hermione had just left a little while ago. He had been in a splendid mood, and then he had taken a look at his cellphone. Thor here, Thor there, Thor everywhere. Hermione was bound to see this, and it would probably give her ideas! This claptrap rendered his attempts to prevent her from seeing his brother futile. He could just as well have pointed a finger and said: “Oh look, there’s a Norse god for you! Have you ever considered that I could be one of those?” He really regretted now that he had made this ticket-boy at the London Eye give them a private cabin. It was too big a clue, and as much as Hermione had liked the exclusive ride on the wheel, he had clearly sensed that she had inwardly frowned upon this kind of “magic”.

He knew that it rankled his girl that she could not put a finger on _what_ he was. But _what_ he was wasn’t the problem. It was _who_ he was that he did not want to tell. He had a reputation on Earth, and in other places too... that probably was to his disadvantage. If she found out who he was, he was probably going to lose her, and what was worse, it would be a real setback at getting the stone. Or was it really worse? He didn’t know any more and that was frightening as hell.

Part of him even wanted her to know his identity. Being liked for who he was would be nice... _Oh, shut up!_ Like that was going to happen. Had he really just thought that? Fuck, what had become of him? Hadn’t he himself mocked his brother about growing soft over a “mortal” woman? This had to stop! But what to do? 

He slowly unclenched his hands, stepped off the remainders of his phone, which he had crushed just before throwing the table and inspected what was left of the little thing. Loki shrugged and threw the phone away casually. Well, in any case he wouldn’t be making any phone calls right now. Thanks a lot, lack of impulse control!

A while later, Loki had taken off towards Hermione’s place with only a very vague plan: eliminate the danger to his plan of snatching the stone from Potter. On his brief flight over (needless to say that he was more subtle than his brother and made himself look like a sparrow) he considered his options. Maybe he should just check in and see if Hermione suspected anything and if she did, talk her out if it? Or convince her to be on his side? He could try, but he had serious doubts if he would succeed. And if he didn’t? He liked none of the remaining options particularly: killing her, kidnapping her, tampering with her memories?

Still unsure what to do, he perched on her windowsill. Oh good. She was in her room. But she sat on the floor with her laptop and looked positively horrified, miserable. Even sick. That probably meant that she suspected something. “Oh Hermie, what am I going to do with you!” Would he be able to erase all memories of him, or just convince her that Aidan had been a nice guy who had moved to Siberia or something? With witches all the mind-control stuff was a lot harder.

Suddenly Hermione shook off her stupor. She jumped up, took her cell out and while she waited for the other end to pick up, she snatched a backpack and started stuffing in a few clothes. _Oh, oh, this was bad._ But Loki was curious. What was she up to? Also, the god of mischief could still not decide on a course of action. So he waited. When Hermione was done packing, which was not even five minutes later, she took up her cell again. Loki strained his ears, and would have rubbed his hands with joy, had he not been a bird right now.

“Come on Harry! Pick up!” she whispered. Then she drew the curtains. Loki didn’t see what was going on any more, but felt that there was serious magic happening on the other side. He could see it like coloured threads that hovered in the air. Carefully, the Norse demi-god analysed the intricate patterns they formed. First a message, then a transportation spell. He didn’t even need to peek behind the curtain to see that Hermione was no longer in the room, but he was not bothered at all. To follow Hermione, he just needed to follow the threads and traces of magic she had left behind.

* * *

Sherlock had been slouching in the chair that was the only piece of furniture in the empty apartment for precisely 7 hours, 45 minutes and 3 seconds, when he abruptly sat up. Finally something happened! “Oh, Potter, I think I owe you an apology,” Sherlock thought. 

He had cursed the young wizard several times over the past few hours. At first, he'd had his homeless network keep an eye on the mystery boyfriend, but nothing much had come of it. In the end, he had decided to have a look for himself. So he'd followed the couple around.

It had been such a boring stake out. In the park, everything very romantic. Lots of holding hands and kissing. It had been annoyingly harmonic. Ride on the London Eye. Okay, there had been one remarkable thing, the couple had climbed into a gondola alone, which was rather unusual. But after interviewing the ticket guy, he suspected that a little money could go a long way... Potter and Weasley had suspected that their friend’s lover was filthy rich. Then more kissing, going back to the lover’s apartment, and … ugh, boooring!

But now, lover-boy had become angry and had smashed his table into the wall, without an apparent reason and – more remarkably – totally effortlessly. Like other people threw plates or cups. Seemed like Potter wasn’t wasting his …

And then it happened. Aidan’s tousled, brown hair turned into long, smooth, black hair, his complexion was becoming paler, his stature was changing! Sherlock’s eyes popped wide open in surprise and he was so utterly flabbergasted that for a split second, there wasn’t a single thought in his head. Hermione’s boyfriend had just turned into someone else. But life had been full of surprises lately, and that’s why Sherlock didn’t question his sanity, but accepted what he saw - and then recognition came almost immediately. This was someone he knew from the Avengers' files and he was really bad news. 

But it couldn’t be him. He was supposed to be dead – oh, wait. Sherlock frowned for even thinking these thoughts. He should know better after having supposedly been dead for almost two years.

There was no time to lose. His hand was already dialling Potter’s number. Dammit! Unreachable. He was running down the stairs, towards the street, while calling Mycroft: “Mycroft, this is Sherlock. No time for brotherly banter today, sorry. Where does Potter’s friend, Miss Granger, live? I think she’s in grave danger. Might have found Loki. Yes, at my current location. TAXI! Yes, I’m on my way. Yes, send backup.”


	19. Diagon Alley

Harry hadn't been to Fortescue's in a while, but this was a nice day for it: The sun was bright in the mid-morning sky, people were happily milling up and down the alley and the occasional explosions from WWW were followed by a chorus of children's laughter and cheering.

Still, Harry was too preoccupied to fully enjoy the idyll of Diagon Alley on a Saturday morning. For one thing, the interactions between the various Avengers and the Holmeses were weighing on his mind. Then, there was the question of what business the Winter Soldier had in Hogsmeade. And finally, the reason he was sitting at the ice cream parlour had been a call from Hermione who had seemed rather out of sorts, to put it mildly. Harry wondered if her mystery boyfriend had in fact proven dangerous. Had Sherlock Holmes discovered anything yet? The thought reminded him that he had switched off the sound on his phone for his written exam prep class that morning; unmuting it now, he saw that he had a missed call from Holmes. Huh.

His finger was hovering over the Call Back button when he spotted Hermione walking toward him with a grim, determined expression.

_Uh-oh._

Something definitely wasn't right, there. Harry was glad to see that Hermione appeared unharmed, but she was radiating disquiet and he knew that the frown upon her brow meant she was seething inside. Locking his phone, Harry returned it to his pocket. If it was urgent, the detective was sure to call again soon. But for now, Hermione was his priority. 

"Harry," she said, hugging him briefly and perfunctorily before throwing herself into a chair next to his with too much force. Chair and table rattled ominously, but Harry's milkshake remained unharmed.

Raising both eyebrows at her - he had never gotten the hang of raising just one -, Harry said mildly: "Good to see you too, Hermione." Then he sat back down and took a slow, deliberate sip of his milkshake.

Hermione laughed weakly. "Sorry, Harry. It has just been such a busy morning for me." Harry thought she would take a while to get to the point, regaling him with the whole line of research and background materials that had brought her to whatever conclusion had her so upset, but for once she came right out with it. "I think I'm dating the God of Mischief," she blurted out.

Harry nearly dropped his milkshake. Which would have been a shame, it had banana muffin and cherry ice cream in it. "Say what?"

"Loki," Hermione said, her wide eyes focused intensely on Harry. Then came the explanation he had been expecting. Counting off on her fingers, Hermione began: "For one, he has magic, but nothing like I have ever seen. Two, he is not afraid to use it for his own immoral gain and he even referred to himself as 'naughty beyond what I might imagine'." Here, she blushed and Harry tried not to wonder what that might be about. "Three, he seems to know I am a witch even though I never performed any magic in front of him. Four, I suspect he was the flower delivery guy two days ago; Loki is a shapeshifter. Five, Thor has been spotted in London. The actual, Norse-god-of-thunder Thor of the so-called Avengers." She sighed heavily. 

Harry couldn't help an amused snort. "I am guessing you dislike the concept of superheroes as much as the Holmes brothers do."

Hermione rolled her eyes at him. "Of course I do, but that's not really the - wait a minute. The Holmes brothers?"

Harry looked at her consideringly. The Avengers' presence in London wasn't exactly a secret (and had it been one, Thor's flight over London last night would have put an abrupt end to it), but the reason for it sort of was. "I... may have gotten involved in a case through my auror work that involves both Sherlock Holmes and the Avengers." 

Hermione blinked. "Huh."

Frowning, Harry added: "It isn't about Loki, though. As far as I am aware, he died, and Thor is clearly in mourning."

"Could he secretly be behind your case, though?" Hermione asked, suddenly anxious. Made sense, Harry thought, if she believed Loki was the one she had been dating. Had he only been stringing her along to better hide from his brother? What a thing to find out about the man you loved!

"No," Harry was quick to reassure her. "This case is quite a different matter and I highly doubt Loki is even aware of it. If it truly is him. ...Do you need a real hug?" he asked, seeing some of the tension go out of Hermione's rigid frame.

Hermione laughed, a bit wetly. "Yes, I think I might."

They hugged.

"Now," Harry said as they parted and sat down again, "tell me more about this boyfriend of yours. Maybe together, we can come up with a better explanation than 'he is secretly Loki'. ...Also, it is good to see you again, Hermione. Ron and I have truly missed you, lately."

"I'm sorry," Hermione said in a small voice. "But I thought I was so in love and I just..."

"I understand," Harry said, smiling wistfully. "I used to be the same way about Ginny, right until the moment she dumped me for that Harpies Beater."

Whatever Hermione might have wanted to say about that got lost in Harry's sudden, strangled yelp. His eyes widened and he reached slowly for his phone, trying not to make any suspicious movements.

The Winter Soldier was marching down Diagon Alley.

Harry cursed quietly when he misspelled Watson's name, but while he was still busy typing, his phone rang. It was Sherlock Holmes.  _ That works, too,  _ Harry thought, taking the call. 

_"Potter, where the fuck have you been? I have been calling for -"_

"Holmes, I was just trying to - "

They both broke off, then started speaking over each other a second time.

_"Your friend is dating Loki Laufeyson."_

"Our target is in Diagon Alley."

Again, they were both quiet together, then started speaking at the same time yet again.

_"Right now? John, you need to send the Avengers to - John. JOHN!"_

"Aw shit, she was afraid of that. So it's really him?"

While Hermione's face was rapidly losing colour at the part of the conversation she could hear, in the background Harry could make out Holmes and Watson arguing over tea, of all things, which apparently Holmes had tampered with, a sin Watson deemed more important discussing right then than the current crisis.

Harry wanted to roll his eyes.  _ Brits! _ Sometimes his landsmen could be so depressingly true to the clichés. But he did not want to lose sight of his target. He had continued watching the Winter Soldier during the call, and the man had been steadily drawing nearer. Luckily, he appeared to be distracted by the child bouncing along beside him and had failed to notice the surveillance. That wouldn't last for much longer, though: The couple were fast approaching the ice cream parlour. 

"I have to go," Harry said quietly. "Come join me soon." He ended the call.

Trying to keep observing the Winter Soldier out of the corner of his eyes, Harry looked back at Hermione. "I'm sorry," he said softly, "but Holmes seems to think that your boyfriend is Loki, as well."

Hermione briefly closed her eyes, visibly swallowed, then took a slow, deep breath. "Well, shit."

That was all the self-pity Hermione allowed herself. Harry didn't know whether it was her general take-charge attitude, her desire for a distraction from her own troubles or her long-standing habit of following Harry into all of his worst messes, but Hermione was focused on the other half of his phone call before Harry himself really got that far. "So," she said, pointedly not turning to look at the table behind her where the obviously muggle man and his child had taken their seats, "is there anything I can do to help you with your current situation?"

Harry laughed weakly. "I should be asking you that," he said ruefully. "But really, this will take more than the two of us. My friends are on it though."

"One day, you'll need to tell me all about it," Hermione said, idly leaning back in her chair. Harry knew it put her that much closer to where the man was murmuring into the child's ear, his voice too low for Harry to hear.

Harry excused himself to go to the loo, where he whipped out his phone again and tried to coordinate with Watson, the elder Holmes and the Ministry of Magic how to get him and the Avengers admitted into the Alley.

Returning to his table, he saw that the boy was now sitting alone at his table while Hermione was scribbling something in her ever-present notebook. "What's up?" he asked, trying to sound casual while he sat down again.

_ "He's left the boy here because he needs to go and 'do some business' in Knockturn Alley," _ Hermione wrote, even as she said: "Not much."  _ "Do you want me to protect the child or come with you?" _

Harry took the pen from her, quickly scratching out:  _ "Please watch the boy. But if the man comes back, do NOT engage! He is dangerous." _

_ "Not a muggle, then?" _ Hermione asked. 

_ "As far as we know, a muggle,"  _ Harry conceded,  _ "but the most dangerous one you'll ever meet. Do not underestimate him!" _

"Please, Hermione," Harry murmured quietly, "take care of yourself. I don't want to see you get hurt."

A moment later, though, it turned out to be a moot point. While they were busy arguing, the boy had gotten up and followed the Winter Soldier.

* * *

Sherlock was cursing himself three kinds of a fool for not following Loki when he had the chance. If the Winter Soldier was a danger to society, the rogue Norse god was even worse. And what had Sherlock done? Gone haring off to save the damsel in distress rather than shadow the actual target. Who had left his apartment by the time Sherlock got back from futilely ringing one Hermione Granger's door bell. Neither she nor any of her flat mates were home, there was no telling where she might have gone.

Sherlock left Mycroft's reinforcements stationed at several points surrounding Granger's apartment and Loki's residence, then returned home to Baker Street to think while occasionally trying to reach Potter again.

It was a relief when the call finally connected and it turned out that Potter's friend was safe and had apparently figured her boyfriend's identity out by herself.  _ Smart girl,  _ Sherlock acknowledged grudgingly. But now apparently the Winter Soldier was in a magical shopping district and Loki was yesterday's news. 

Sherlock knew they'd have to revisit the inquiry into Loki's presence in London very soon, but for now, his desire to see magical Britain was stronger. This was the perfect excuse, even! He was beginning to like this killer. Following him around was fun.

And so he found himself standing on Charing Cross Road alongside John and the assembled Avengers, waiting for the wizard supposed to show them the entrance to the shopping district. Their group looked anything but inconspicuous and he was sure the social media were going wild with speculation about their presence in this part of London, but right now it couldn't be helped.

A moment later, Weasley was standing next to them. None of them had seen him coming, and yet there he was.

"The Entrance is hidden from muggles," he explained. "Grab hold of each other and one of you hold on to me," he instructed and, feeling like little children, they followed his lead and held hands. A moment later, they were all standing inside a dimly lit pub that seemed to have sprung from a different century, having entered through a door none of them had been able to see.

"Wow," Barton whistled, "color me impressed."

Weasley led them through the bar and out the back to a wall which he tapped several times with his wand. Sherlock memorized the pattern. He did not own a wand -  _ yet -  _ but one never knew when such information might become useful. 

"Welcome to Diagon Alley," Weasley said in a half-joking tone. Obviously he thought they would not be as impressed as your average first-time visitor to this place.

Well.

They may not all show it as openly as John and Barton, but Sherlock thought all of them were quite overwhelmed by the view presented to them by the wall slowly folding back like a clunky, unwieldy curtain. Except, that was, Romanova; but then she had already known about magic for whatever reason.

As for himself, Sherlock did not even attempt to keep the awe from his face at the myriad new things to explore and experiment with. The apothecary drew his eye, then the bookshop, and a highly intriguing large storefront that boldly announced "Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes". He wondered if their current guide had any relation to the store's owners. 

"Let's go." Said man's words drew Sherlock from his contemplation and he grudgingly followed the young wizard down the crowded street. He resolved to come back soon, though. No way could Sherlock be introduced to a part of London he never even knew existed and resist exploring it!


	20. Knockturn Alley

Barnes confidently stalked down the dark, narrow alley. He had noticed the wizards in the bright shopping district instinctively shying away from this neighborhood, subconsciously crossing to the other side of the road as they passed the intersection.

And Wizards, what a thought. An old part of himself, deeply hidden beneath layers upon layers of bitterness, pain and anger, was giddy with the thought that magic was real and there were actual, hat-wearing, wand-wielding wizards with long beards and cloaks, black cats and even - he barely dared believe his eyes - riding on broomsticks.

A different, more cynical part of him pointed out that he'd had brushes with magic before and it had never ended well for him. Shaking off the bad premonition, he focused on the alley again. He took in the aura of menace and corruption that hung above the cobblestones like a physically manifest dark cloud.

The Winter Soldier smiled.

These people may have magic, but he had fought against men wielding magical weapons before and won. Magic users were obviously more dangerous than regular humans, but if they were the foxes in the hen house, he was the apex predator that devoured the fox the moment it left the sheltering hut. Just as the regular wizards in the bright shopping street had shied away from this alley, now people shied away from the danger that was the Winter Soldier advancing down the dark alley like a nightmare turned flesh and metal. 

The Soldier had not taken pains to disguise himself. The prey he was stalking was known for their arrogance. Let them know he was coming. They did not know enough of the mundane world that they would know to be afraid. He smiled darkly. They would learn.

* * *

“ _He is in Knockturn Alley now,”_ the glowing stag spoke with Potter's voice.  _ “I'm in pursuit. If he enters a building, I will leave a mark outside.” _

“Do not engage him,” Natasha cautioned briskly. “He is extremely dangerous.”

“This isn't like a floo connection,” Weasley told them, “he can't hear you. And I will not send a message back, that would just paint a glowing target on Harry.”

Steve had no idea what a flue or - why not? - a flu had to do with communication, but the short time he had spent in the two wizards' company had already taught him not to apply logic to the ways magical people did things. If they needed to run a fever to induce telepathy, then that's what they would do. Who was he to judge?

Natasha seemed to accept the statement at face value, anyway, not pushing for a return message. Strategically, it made sense not to send a return  _ patronus _ , that much was obvious to all of them. They'd just have to trust that Potter knew how to stay out of sight and keep his weapon in check. 

As if reading his mind, Weasley flashed Steve a quick grin. “Don't worry, if Harry needs to be invisible, he will be. He knows better by now than to let any part of him peek out from underneath the cloak.”

Stark's visor went up. “Seriously?” he asked, with a tone both disgusted and gleeful, and Steve had no idea how he managed that. “You people have actual  _ invisibility cloaks?” _

Steve had to admit that was a pretty awesome thought. And terrifying. Imagine invisible Hydra agents infiltrating government and company offices and finishing off all major players in one fell swoop. They wouldn't even need any helicarriers for that, any odd assassin would do.

He shivered. “Less chatter,” he commanded sharply. Then, remembering he wasn't currently the leader of their joint task force, he guiltily looked over at Watson. But the man was busy talking strategy with the five fully trained aurors that had accompanied Weasley on this mission and wasn't even looking in their direction.

A moment later, the war council appeared to be concluded and Watson turned to face them all. Looking shiftily at the wizards gathering around them to gawk, Watson cleared his throat before hesitantly asking Weasley: “Is there a way to, you know, not have everyone overhear our plans?”

Weasley instantly drew his wand, but then hastily deferred to one of the senior aurors. The man waved his wand in a few sharp, precise gestures and said a string of words that seemed to be closely related to, but not really Latin. Nothing seemed to happen, but Weasley instantly relaxed and gave Watson an encouraging nod. “They can't understand our words now,” he explained. Steve hadn't noticed the spell having any effects at all, but judging by the sullen frowns on the bystanders' faces, Weasley was telling the truth.

“Good,” Watson said, seeming at ease with the spellwork. Steve admired his cool in the face of actual magic. “Until we know who the Soldier's target is, we cannot protect them. Also, we don't know how the Soldier even got into the alley. Does he have magic? Is a wizard sponsoring him? As such, we must proceed with extreme caution.”

Steve suppressed a sigh. Extreme caution was really not his strength. And this was  _ Bucky! _

"The wizards will go first," Watson continued, "this being their terrain and the targets most likely being magical, as well. So far, every one of the Winter Soldier's kills has been a member of Hydra - or at least suspected of being connected to them. As such, we must expect the targets to be criminals, and hostile toward us. The... aurors, here, will block any magical means of egress, but we must be prepared to respond in case the Winter Soldier or his targets attempt to break through our ranks by brute force."

Watson looked around and met each of their eyes. He was a surprisingly convincing leader, Steve thought; he wondered what exactly he'd been doing in Afghanistan, other than keeping Tony entertained while the medics stitched him back together after his kidnapping. Steve had a niggling suspicion that he ought to find out if this man outranked him, like Colonel Rhodes did. Either way, though, they might have more in common than he had first assumed.

"I know opinions on the Winter Soldier vary wildly amongst this group," Watson said and Steve had to suppress a snort. That was a very polite way to put it. "Regardless, however, we must work together here. Everyone, please remember the facts: The Winter Soldier is killing people without being sanctioned to do so by the government. That makes him a criminal we need to apprehend."

Steve sulked. He didn't care that Watson was giving him a disapproving frown for it; he just really, really felt like sulking. Bucky was a POW, dammit, and he had been brainwashed! Surely he couldn't be held accountable for what he had done?

"On the other hand," and here Watson looked at Tony, who had put his faceplate back down so Steve couldn't tell if he was about to sulk as well, "Sergeant Barnes is the world's single longest-serving POW and he  _ must not be harmed  _ in the process. Are we clear?"

Iron Man gave a sloppy salute that made Steve grimace and Watson mutter something uncharitable under his breath. Still, the man soldiered on and Steve had to admire his countenance.

"So the bottom line is: We need to keep the Winter Soldier and his target from killing each other. We need to apprehend both parties. And we need to keep ourselves and them alive through it. Any questions?"

Everyone shook their heads. "Then, aurors, lead the way, please," Watson said and the group quietly entered the alley.

* * *

Loki sat on the crooked roof of a dimly lit shop in Knockturn Alley, this time disguised as a tawny owl to better blend in with the Midgardian magical neighbourhood. He watched with intense amusement how the fabled Winter Soldier marched down the alley, not bothering to hide his presence at all, and was followed by a ridiculous procession of humans. 

First was a little boy who appeared emotionally attached to the assassin, judging by the mix of hopeful and scared looks he kept shooting the man as he crept in his wake; curious.

Then came Potter and, aggravatingly, his Hermione, the two of them huddled close together underneath a truly spectacular cloak of invisibility. Not that it hid them from Loki's eyes, of course, but he could tell it was of good quality. The best, possibly.

The invisible wizards were closely followed by a witch of a quite different nature and a man who appeared... not entirely normal, though Loki couldn't put his finger on what made him stand out. Enhanced, presumably.

Looking at all the different people trailing after a man obviously intent on murder made Loki's mischievous heart sing. His talons were itching to let loose, soar down there and get into the thick of it. And there, once Potter was distracted by the mayhem bound to break out in a matter of minutes, he would discover where Potter hid the precious cargo Loki knew he must always be carrying on his person. But not yet, he chided himself, locking his legs and keeping his claws tightly clutched around the edge of the gutter. Not yet. First, he had to wait for said mayhem to begin.

The people involved in the impending stand-off were an impressive array already, but so far none of them, be they alone or travelling in pairs, had truly pinged on the alley's regulars' radars. True, the little boy was not as safe as a parent might like in this part of town; the boy seemed blissfully unaware of the glances some of the alley dwellers were shooting him. And maybe the unusual witch and her companion also got a bit more attention for their garb and their intent looks than they probably felt comfortable with. But none of them disturbed the alley. They were just strangers passing through, nothing all that common in Knockturn Alley but certainly not newsworthy, either.

Not so the last group.

Here they all were, wizards and Avengers and... was that the private detective who presumably died a couple of years ago? Funny how that happened to so many people lately.

This group was not inconspicuous. They weren't trying to blend in any more than the Soldier had done. But they were completely silent.

Loki shifted his weight from left to right to left. His beak popped open of his own volition and let out a haunting screech. Let the games begin!

* * *

Harry and Hermione had followed the assassin inside an outstandingly unremarkable townhouse in Knockturn Alley, Harry marking the door before entering as he had promised Watson. The Winter Soldier did a quick search of the lower basement during which Harry and Hermione kept themselves absolutely still in the corner by the front door. Finding no-one, the assassin then mounted the stairs to the second floor.

The stairs creaked with each step and before the man was all the way up, a voice could be heard complaining about unwelcome visitors. The voice stopped abruptly, though, when its owner presumably turned a corner and caught sight of this particular unwelcome guest.

"Amycus, it's the Winter Soldier!" it screeched. "Run!!!"

Harry's eyes narrowed and the moment the Soldier vanished from the top stair, Harry brushed off the cloak and followed. He heard Hermione gasp behind him, but trusted she knew how to take care of herself.

Amycus, Merlin! Could it be the Winter Soldier had actually found out the Carrow siblings? They had been captured in the early stages of the Battle of Hogwarts, but then managed to escape in the ensuing chaos. Nobody had seen hide nor hair of them since and it was assumed they had done something to permanently alter their appearance. Still, every auror apprentice was shown their faces and told to watch out for these 'immensely dangerous criminals'. If this were really them...

Harry remembered the stories Neville had told the trio of what Hogwarts life under the Carrows had been like, and suddenly he was intensely grateful that the Winter Soldier had crashed into his life. The man appeared to be doing them all a huge favour.

Harry felt it was his duty, then, to make sure the man did not pay for it with his life. The Carrows  _ were _ dangerous criminals. They had been amongst Voldemort's closest confidants, once upon a time. 

However, when Harry reached the top of the stairs, he was too late to join the fight for it had already moved out into the street.

* * *

Julian stopped uncertainly in front of the shabby, brown door. Bucky had gone in, and Julian was so afraid he wasn't going to come out alive! He sometimes got those bad feelings, and mostly they were nothing, but then sometimes they were not. What if today was sometimes?

Bucky had told him to stay at the table, but the moment he lost sight of his... his... Bucky hadn't offered him the use of 'papa' or 'daddy', so he shouldn't be thinking of the man like that. But his  _ Bucky _ had told him to stay and Julian just couldn't. The bad feeling had gotten worse and worse the further from him Bucky got, and very soon, Julian had been pulled to his feet by something much stronger than his will to obey. 

He had to follow Bucky, and try and prevent whatever was coming. But oh, God, he shouldn't be here! Looking around the alleyway, he saw a seedy old man looking at him with a kind of curiosity that gave Julian goosebumps; a scrawny cat that looked really unhealthy; and a couple of young people without any cloaks or hats who were trying to hide under the awnings of the shop on the other side of the street. Also, the glowing image of a fiery bird had appeared on the door after Bucky had entered, without anyone drawing it. All of it made Julian want to run and hide.

But... Bucky. Julian knew something bad was about to happen, it was going to happen to  _ Bucky,  _ who hated magic and had none of his own and couldn't defend himself if someone attacked him with it, and if Julian wasn't here he couldn't defend Bucky either and that was bad, bad, bad!

Hesitantly, Julian raised a trembling hand and reached for the doorknob.

Then all hell broke loose.


	21. Showdown

John startled when the window right above the marked door burst outward in a hail of shattered glass and furious wizard. "He blocked the floo," the man shouted, and looking up, John saw he was addressing a witch who joined him in jumping out the broken window. Next in line was the fabled Winter Soldier himself whose combat boots hit the cobblestones of the alley with an ominous _Thunk._

"Carrow and Carrow," he said, "you are dead." Then he raised his gun and fired.

As the Avengers burst into motion around him, the wizards raised their wands and produced glowing shields that... actually stopped the bullets. _Wow._ John was suddenly really glad that he had walked in the front, right next to one of those aurors. They were quite handy in a battle.

One Avenger did not join the battle; Banner, after taking a good, long look at the narrow street, the fragile-looking storefronts with their knick-knacks and thin, wonky windows and brittle bricks and the many (potentially) innocent bystanders trying not to be noticed as they watched from behind their curtains, had curtly shaken his head and taken a decisive step back.

Probably a smart choice.

Meanwhile, the auror whose shield John was hiding behind appeared giddy like a little kid. "Did he say Carrow? Hey, Michael, did you hear that too?"

"Sure did," his partner replied with a shit-eating grin. "I can't wait to put these Death Eating monsters into the deepest hellhole in Azkaban."

Huh. Apparently, the Winter Soldier was once again proving his worth as a finder of the nastiest scum on the face of the earth.

"Oldenberg move?" Michael's partner asked and Michael and two other aurors nodded. "Hide," Michael told John, then all four of them were suddenly moving.

John watched for a moment in awe as the aurors joined the fray, two of them apparently on defence duty while the other two sent a stream of brightly glowing spells toward the witch and wizard the Winter Soldier had rooted out. Theirs were not the only spells flying about, though, and it didn't end there: A shield, a hammer and the occasional arrow made the pandemonium complete.

John took the auror's advice and took shelter behind a barrel standing conveniently in front of the store right next to the Carrows' house.

"Are those actual _newts' eyes?"_ John heard. He threw a quick glance over his shoulder and found Sherlock crouched down next to him. Different from John, though, the consulting detective was gleefully inspecting the contents of the barrel rather than keeping his head down when everyone was shooting like they were trying to out-gun each other at a fun fair.

Shaking his head, John refrained from comment. He knew Sherlock had enough situational awareness to know what he was doing was dangerous. He just did it anyway. Trying to block out his former flatmate's untimely explorations, John took out his trusted Sig and sought a worthy target.

Easier said than done.

Looking at the battle unfolding in the narrow alleyway, John resisted the urge to rub his eyes or tell Sherlock to pinch him. He thought he had already accepted that he was living in a world that had actual superheroes, magic users and mythical 'gods' in it. But he found he had rather a hard time right now accepting as reality what his eyes were telling him.

Steve Rogers and the Winter Soldier were fighting back to back, defending against the hostile wizards on one side and against Iron Man on the other. It shouldn't have been possible, but they were holding their own against _magic._ Mainly because Barnes's metal arm appeared to be able to _swat away spells!!!,_ but also because the aurors were keeping up a steady stream of spells targeted solely at the presumed Death Eaters and keeping them on their toes.

Iron Man, in turn, was under attack from both ground and air, the Falcon, Black Widow and Hawkeye proving loyal to Captain America. Stark was zooming this way and that to stay ahead of Hawkeye's arrows and out of Falcon's clutches, taking care never to come into the Widow's range.

Thor was a wildcard, too drunk to properly assess the situation and as a consequence, targeting friend and foe alike.

While all this was going on, Potter seemed to be fighting his own battle. He was standing in the frame of the broken window, clutching at his head and grimacing fiercely. A bushy-haired woman was standing beside him, appearing to try and talk him through it. She didn't seem to be having much success, though. While John looked on, the woman's eyes suddenly narrowed and she whirled around in a determined motion, stabbing her wand at nothing.

Or rather, at something. A man appeared where she had pointed her wand, raising his hands in a placating gesture. John felt Sherlock stiffen beside him. Turning for a brief moment, he saw that the man had abandoned his inspection of the creepy store's goods and was looking up at the broken window, as well.

"Loki," Sherlock breathed.

* * *

_Blast,_ Loki thought and vaulted through the broken window, just like three people had done before him. This brought him smack into the middle of the battle, but that was still a safer place for him than up there where Hermione was staring at him with a mixture of betrayal and utter fury.

He really hadn't thought this through.

It had appeared so simple: Sneak up behind Potter, invisible; read his mind; get the Infinity Stone, and peace out. But noooo, of course stupid Potter had to have rudimentary mental barriers. _Blargh._ And to make matters worse, while they were fighting a mental battle for control, he had not noticed in time that his Hermione was still with Potter. She, however, had figured out in impressively little time what was going on and had forced Loki to reveal himself.

He needed to stop underestimating Midgardian magic users. Some of their spells were actually good. (Also, Midgard had born his Hermione, so it couldn't be all worthless.)

_Point of fact,_ he thought as he ducked form a hail of sickly-looking blue-green spells, _I really need to get out of here._

He made to turn on his heel and disappear when two heavy prank suddenly fell down on his shoulders. "Brother," Thor's alcohol-laden voice boomed into his ear. "'Tis really you!"

"Erm." Loki didn't quite know what to say. "I know you have never been the slickest tool in the shed, but you do realize we are under attack, don't you?"

"Snark," his brother gushed, "oh, it really is you!" The pranks fell away from Loki's shoulders, but before he could heave in a relieved breath, Thor was wrapping both arms entirely around him.

"Ugh."

...Five minutes later, they were mirroring Captain America and his hydrastic boyfriend, standing back to back and taking on all comers.

This _really_ hadn't been the plan.

* * *

Pietro was perched on a windowsill on the second floor of a tavern, waiting for his chance to jump onto Iron Man's back and bring him down to where Wanda could easily get to him. Wanda, meanwhile, was protecting the boy who was cowering in the door frame of the house marked with the phoenix symbol and didn't seem to understand at all what was going on.

Waiting wasn't Pietro's strongest suit, but after all they had sacrificed for their revenge against Stark, he knew he could get through this one last bit of discomfort. ...Well, okay, so he did occasionally flit down to meddle; but he wanted to see the man who could stay _still_ in the face of all that was going on here! And was it his fault that another one of those Death Eater guys whose thoughts made Wanda sick was suddenly joining the fight - and forgetting to watch his back? Out came Pietro's right hook and down he went. It wasn't like it took Pietro so much time he'd be missing an opportunity. He was back on his perch in no time at all.

...Until an arrow nearly struck the wall next to his face. "You with us or against us?" the archer demanded from where he was equally perched up high, opposite Pietro.

Cursing, Pietro abandoned his position and jumped - right onto Iron Man's back!

_What the...?!_

Deciding not to look a gift horse in the mouth, Pietro slung his legs around Stark's neck, leaned back and _pulled._

He could tell it wasn't enough to break the man's neck, but he didn't miss by much. Certainly, he was enough of a nuisance that Stark felt forced to land. Unfortunately, Iron Man's former team mates seemed to recognize Pietro as a new threat now and stopped shooting at Stark. Instead, all of them were suddenly focusing their fire on Pietro.

Wanda came to his help. Her magic kept the attackers' manifold weapons at bay even as she struck out a hand and reached into Stark's mind. Pietro heard the man begin to scream and felt a deep satisfaction spreading through his middle like a warm glow.

It froze to sharp-edged ice crystals when a second scream tore through the din of the battle.

"BUCKIIIIIEEEEE!!!"

Julian.

Horrified, Pietro turned around to see the child running right through the middle of the fight toward Barnes, who was slumped on the ground, thrashing against some kind of invisible bonds as his looming enemy's wand began to glow. Captain America, at his back, was still busy keeping the other hostile wizard at bay.

The curse ripped loose, shooting straight for Barnes's heart and Pietro knew neither he nor Julian could get there in time. Grief threatened to overwhelm him and he gritted his teeth against it and -

Suddenly Julian was standing in front of Barnes, hand stretched out toward the evil wizard.

Wanda had said the 'wizards' had done something to make their kind's teleportation impossible, so the kid must have done something different to get there this fast. What, Pietro didn't know, and it didn't matter. What mattered was the fact that Julian had gotten there in time, and he was blocking the curse!

"Yes!" Pietro jumped up and pumped his fist in the air, all thoughts of Iron Man forgotten for a brief moment.

That was all it took. Without Pietro's help, Iron Man shook off Wanda's grip, quickly took aim and fired. Pietro, whose back was turned, didn't even notice. Wanda did, though, and she pushed her brother aside at the last moment.

The shot went wide.

Again, Pietro wanted to feel happy, and again it was spoiled a moment later - by Julian being in danger. Again. For he was now right in the path of Iron Man's repulsor blast.

The blast was coming from much further away than the spell had done, though...

* * *

Barnes stared at Julian in wonder. He'd had no idea the child had magic! And he had used it to protect him, Bucky Barnes!

A warmth blossomed in his heart that had too long been frozen.

"Julian," he said, reaching out for his child.

But the boy flinched from him. "I'm sorry!" he said.

"Sorry?" Barnes asked, puzzled. "What for? I know I told you to stay at the café, but kid, you just saved my life!"

"But I did magic!" Julian cried. "You hate magic!"

"That's not -" Barnes began, but then he saw a red heat blast racing toward himself. And Julian was standing right in its path, with his back to it. Julian didn't see it coming, and there was no time to stop it and Barnes was injured, he couldn't get up and Julian was just out of reach!

All this flashed through Barnes's mind in the fraction of a second it took for the repulsor blast to travel the distance from Iron Man's outstretched hand to their location. There, it struck a slim body and burned a sizzling hole through it before fizzing out.

"Bet you didn't see... that... coming," an unfamiliar voice said. Then a young man broke down next to them.

Barnes didn't even know this man and he had sacrificed himself to save Julian's life.

Maybe it was time to stop killing people, Barnes mused, startled by the day's many unexpected turns. Saving people seemed to be much more en vogue than killing them. And today, he really appreciated that.

He felt a sharp pang of sorrow for the young stranger who lay at his feet, slain by a blast that had probably been meant for Barnes. He felt even worse when a red-haired young woman appeared at the victim's side and started to cry desperately for her... brother?

But before he could make any move to try and comfort her, or ask Steve to _do something, please!!!,_ the woman was pushed aside by a dark-haired young wizard with glasses.

"He's not dead yet," the man said, then pointed a wand at the fallen young man and put some kind of spell on him.

"Who are you?" the young woman said.

"My name is Harry," the dark-haired wizard said, keeping his eyes on his spellwork, but still making an effort to force a friendly smile on his face. "And you are...?"

"Wanda," she said. "I am Wanda, and that is my brother, Pietro. Please, is he...?"

"He's alive," Harry said. "I've put him in stasis, he won't be getting any worse that way until a healer can see to him. He's alive," he repeated, "and I'll get him to St. Mungo's right away where they are going to do their damnedest to keep it that way."

"Oh, thank you!" Wanda cried, once again bursting into tears.

"Excuse me," a metallic-sounding voice suddenly snarled, "but those two brats just tried to kill me."

"Yeah, well," Captain America snarled right back, "you tried to kill Bucky. Stones and glass houses, Tony!"

Looking around, Barnes saw that the battle had broken up. The Carrows and two other wizards had been apprehended by the wizarding police, a young red-headed officer standing proudly over the horror duo. Amycus was being magically hog-tied by an older officer with a slight paunch while a non-magical looking, tall man in a bespoke suit was holding a knife to the  other  Hydra creep's chin. Loki, who had surprisingly materialized during the fight and did nobody stay dead any more these days?! - was  _ still _ being hugged by his brother and was going nowhere fast. And he himself, well. 

He was a literal sitting duck.

Barnes had some idea that the interrupted second curse had been meant to bind him in invisible ties wreathed in fire, or at least that had been what it felt like, but the first one beat him. It appeared to have dissolved all the bones in his legs. He wasn't going to hunt any more Hydra agents like this. Or even walk again.

Ever.

_End of the line,_ a voice that sounded like Steve's pronounced in the back of his head.

"C'm on, I'll carry you to the hospital," Real Steve suddenly said. Blinking, Barnes saw the man crouched in front of him, gesturing impatiently for him to climb on his back. "That wizarding hospital is supposed to be right swell, they'll fix your legs up good as new in no time."

_That's right, the good guys have magic, too,_ Barnes thought, dazed.

"And who's this big man?" Steve asked, voice soft and friendly.

Barnes climbed onto Steve's back like a man in a trance, but he still had the wherewithal to make sure Julian was alright. Steve would take care of his kid, but first he needed to know who Julian was. "This is Julian, his mother was Hydra and she was mean to him," he said, his words slightly slurred from the blood loss.

Blood loss?

_Right. Got hit... in the femoral artery..._

He double-checked that yes, he had wrapped that leg in a tight bind even as he was shooting at the Carrow bitch; his amped-up body was already healing the wound. Still, blood loss.

_Yay._

"Julian, this is Steve. He's my oldest friend. Heh, oldest. He's like, what, ninety?"

Steve craned his neck around to make sure Bucky saw his eye-roll. "Still younger than you, gramps. Since I was frozen the entire time, I of course kept a lot fresher."

Bucky hummed agreeably. "'s nice, being carried by you," he remarked. "Like old times, only wrong way 'round."

"Yeah, Bucky," Steve said, and his voice sounded a little wet. "Just like old times."

From the corner of his slowly closing eyes, Bucky saw a bright flash in the distance. One last gunshot sounded. A wizard robed in black appeared from thin air - Hydra, Bucky recognized with a brief flash of satisfaction - and fell to the cobblestones, dead; and somewhere, a disbelieving voice cried: "Mary?!"

Then Bucky finally lost consciousness.


	22. Cup of Tea, Dear?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter of "London Calling". There is an additional small ficlet that contains Harry and Ron's final exam since that grew too long to remain in the fic. I've linked it in the chapter. If you like, head on over there at that point.

"Tea?" Mycroft Holmes asked, and not waiting for an answer handed out cups to his visitors. His British guest took his with a quiet nod of thanks. The American, though, looked at the fine Gunpowder from his one eye with a pinched look as though he was considering staging a second Tea Party. "Thanks," he drawled, his tone implying anything but gratefulness.

The moment the British politician turned his head to reach for some baked goods to proffer with the tea, Nick Fury took out his metal hip flask and stealthily added a healthy shot of rum to his tea. If he was going to talk shop with these two stick-up-the-ass Englishmen, he needed more than watered down herbs.

Kingsley Shacklebolt had made sure early on that hip flasks were forbidden on pain of Azkaban in his ministry, the Bartemius Crouch debacle still very fresh on his mind after all these years. Seeing another one-eyed man taking out a flat, silver flask did not make him feel at ease. So he carefully extracted his wand and waved it at the American's cup when the other wasn't looking, busy accepting a scone from Holmes. He felt a little better when the readings all came up clear. Still, better safe than sorry.

Mycroft saw his wizarding colleague do something to Fury's tea, but decided to ask him about that later, in private; the bonds between fellow Brits held stronger than the ones between a British politician and the currently unofficial head of an American spy agency - even when one of said Brits was a wizard.

"The threat of the Winter Soldier has been contained," Mycroft began. "Sergeant Barnes surrendered himself into Captain Rogers's custody. The child went along. Every other hostile involved in the battle of Diagon Alley has been apprehended by your aurors, I believe?" He knew the answer, of course, but wanted it stated again so they were all on the same page as it were.

"Indeed, they have," Shacklebolt agreed. "Thanks to your Winter Soldier" - he nodded in Fury's direction -"we have finally been able to apprehend four criminals that have been at large since the end of the second Death Eater War. They will be tried in the coming weeks, then most likely be shipped to Azkaban. Our prison," he added for Fury's benefit; Mycroft already knew.

"And what of the twins?" Fury had surely heard the Avengers' debrief, but other than Barnes he hadn't personally laid an eye on any of the captives. It was obvious he did not like that.

"They, too, remain in our custody for the time being," Shacklebolt replied. "Mister Maximoff has been restored to full health by our healers and both he and his sister are currently held by magical means until we can agree on a course of action."

"The Avengers have expressed the wish to return to America," Fury offered.

"All of them?" Mycroft asked.

"Yeah," Fury confirmed, his casual tone making Mycroft want to scrunch up his nose. "Why, would you like to keep a few of them here?"

Mycroft hummed non-committally.

"You would," Fury said blandly. "Why."

"Do you believe it wise, at this point, to send Sergeant Barnes to live in close proximity to Mister Stark?" Mycroft asked pointedly. "Or Mister Laufeyson with Mister Barton?"

"Well, no," Fury said. "But I wouldn't have thought you'd want the Winter Soldier lose on your turf. And I don't think Rogers will be okay with any plans that involve locking his BFF up tight like the Tower."

"Obviously," Mycroft drawled, realizing he sounded like Sherlock and resenting Fury for having made him do it. "However, in this case I believe the benefits outweigh the potential risks."

"How's that?" Fury asked suspiciously.

Shacklebolt took over the explanation. "Both Loki and Miss Maximoff wield a magic different from ours. We'd like to keep them both here and study them. For this to happen, I believe we need Mister Odinsson here to keep his brother in check. Meanwhile, the Maximoff twins have, for whatever reason, taken a shine to the boy that is following Barnes around. It would help our relation to them if we could have the boy around."

Fury's face grew darker. "So you want to study them. Why not just lock them up, though? All three of them have committed enough crimes to deserve it."

"Would you like to explain that to the God of Thunder?" Shacklebolt asked sardonically. Mycroft liked this minister. So much better to talk to than the mindless idiots that held the position before him.

Fury saluted the Wizarding Minister with his cup of tea, conceding the point. "Thor has no interest in the twins, though."

"He might not," Mycroft said mildly, "but it appears that the Boy Who Lived has taken a shine to Miss Maximoff."

Fury rolled his eyes. Those backwards islanders and their Arthurian legends! Also, _really?_ "Just to make sure I understand you correctly: You are willing to let a couple of terrorists go free just because your favorite celebrity has a crush?"

Shacklebolt's mouth twisted like he had bitten on a lemon. "Yes," he said. Nothing more, but it nicely conveyed this government's helplessness in the face of public opinion. Woe betide the man who crosses the fabled Boy Who Lived!

Fury raised his cup of gross herbs made palatable with a nice shot of Rogue Dark to his lips, deliberately failing to fully hide the smirk that formed in the face of the politician's distress. "Here's to democracy!"

* * *

No plan survives contact with the enemy.

In this case, the enemy took the shape of a Captain America hell-bent on taking his Bucky home to Brooklyn; a genius billionaire playboy philanthropist who decided that rather than hold on to his anger, he wanted to get his hands on the shiny metal arm - and promptly invited everyone to join the Avengers and stay in his tower; and a Norse God who surprisingly didn't like rain clouds if they weren't part of a thunderstorm he had personally summoned.

Harry Potter, as it turned out, was quite willing to move to the United States and play liaison for the British Ministry. He would also act as auror escort for the team of Unspeakables the MACUSA agreed to include in their research project focusing on the magics of the Jotun guest and the powerful, wandlessly bewitching teenager. He just had to take his final practical and written exams to become a fully qualified auror and then he'd be off.

Mycroft felt a little sorry for his magical fellow politician's lost chance; but when it came right down to it, he was relieved to see the hordes of magical and super-serumed chaos leave his country.

Considering that the assassin Mary Morstan had just decided to make a comeback while nine months pregnant, he felt confident he wasn't going to get bored any time soon.

* * *

"So, what did you think?" Potter asked merrily as he, Weasley and their auror colleague Longbottom accompanied Sherlock and John back to the ministry's public entrance after [their practical exam.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28808739)

"I think you are both quite mad," John replied with an absolutely straight face. Sherlock nodded earnestly.

Potter and Weasley grinned at each other. "Neat!"

John cracked. "Seriously, mates, this was impressive. You _do_ know how to think outside the box, that's for sure."

"Though your patronus humping Prongs's leg was a bit much," Longbottom added, giving Weasley the evil side-eye.

The redhead just shrugged, unconcerned. "It's a dog. That's what dogs _do."_

"So, I suppose this is good-bye," Weasley said upon reaching the lift. They all shook hands.

"Will we see you around?" John asked. Sherlock could tell despite the neutral tone that John was really hoping for the answer to be yes. He silently agreed. Magic was infuriatingly illogical - but fun.

"Well, _I_ might be seeing Mister Holmes around," Potter declared, winking at Sherlock.

"How is that?" Sherlock could not think of a reason why he and Potter should stay in touch.

Potter grinned at him. "I'll be moving to New York in the fall. As I recall, Stark mentioned that you have a brother who looks just like you?"

Sherlock's eyes widened. "You know who-"

Longbottom flinched, Potter rolled his eyes and Weasley elbowed Sherlock in the side.

"- he was talking about? _What?"_

"Never begin a sentence with 'You Know Who' in the wizarding world," Weasley explained with a lopsided smile. "It's considered very gauche."

"Noted," John said, wide-eyed at their reactions.

Sherlock was undeterred. "Well? Do you?"

In lieu of an answer, Potter pulled a moving wizarding picture from… Sherlock didn't really want to know where. With these three, best never to wonder. Taking the photograph, Sherlock struggled to keep his features calm. "He really does look like me, doesn't he?" he asked John as calmly as he could manage.

Studying the picture Sherlock was holding out to him, John agreed whole-heartedly. "Who is he?"

"Doctor Stephen Strange," Potter replied. "So far as we can tell, his magic is unlike ours, but also different from Wanda's or Loki's." He grinned widely. "As the auror escort to the British representatives on the newly formed joint Foreign Magic Research Institute (FMRI for short), I will be directly involved in any attempts to contact Doctor Strange and ask for his permission to study his magic. Would you be willing to introduce us?"

Sherlock's eyes sparkled at the new adventure before him. "It would be my pleasure."

* * *

"You won't stay in America long, will you?" John asked later in that deceptively calm, off-hand manner that meant he was internally struggling with some intense emotion.

"I don't know," Sherlock replied equally as nonchalantly. "I might."

"But… you only just came back."

"True." Still sore about the lukewarm welcome he had gotten, Sherlock added: "But I shall hardly be missed if I leave again, shall I?"

All of a sudden, Sherlock had an angry Doctor Watson in his face. "You are the most ridiculous and aggravating person I have ever met!"

That stung. "You agree, then."

Sherlock already knew that John's right hook was painful; until now, though, he hadn't been aware that John's hugs could be just as devastating. _"Of course_ I'll miss you, Sherlock!"

Stiffly, Sherlock tried to disentangle himself from John's embrace. "You have Mary now. You don't need me."

Refusing to let go, John refuted: "I can need more than one person. I _do_ need more than one person. So does Mary."

"John. What are you saying."

"Have tea with us?" John's voice was so hopeful it hurt. "Just… Just talk to Mary. And me. Spend some time with us, get to know her. I know you think she is boring and I've gotten boring and we won't fit any more, but… You've seen her shoot, Sherlock. You've seen her keep her past hidden like it was nothing. You know she's not boring. So… Please come home soon?"

_Home._

And suddenly Sherlock found himself returning the hug. "Promise."

* * *

Natasha smiled at Bruce across her Long Island Iced Tea. The mission had been crazy, but when was that not true for an Avengers mission? It had ended well, though, without any loss of life and with both Steve and Thor happy to have their lost loved ones back. All in all, not a bad outcome.

And since Thor was busy "rehabilitating" Loki, she and Bruce could finally enjoy that date -

"Friends! What a splendid surprise to find you here!"

Natasha looked up to see Thor striding determinedly toward their table, Loki trailing after him feigning disinterest. Behind them, Steve was leading a twitchy, tense Winter Soldier into the bar and Natasha could see it would take only the slightest provocation for the man to explode into violence.

"Great," she said succinctly.

Bruce cancelled his order of a Zombie and calmly asked for their tea menu.

* * *

_Four Years Later_

“Now remember, Julian: We do not tackle, punch, drop-kick, or otherwise attack and maim other children,” Steve admonished quietly while adjusting the boy’s collar.

“Even when they are being dull, insulting and aggravating,” Tony added.

“Hypocrites,” Julian’s father mumbled, so low that Julian assumed he wasn’t supposed to hear. He suppressed a grin.

“Let me know if you run out of tea or need a refresher on those meditation exercises.” Bruce’s smile was as kind as always even while he was nervously twisting his glasses in his hands.

A hand suddenly appeared out of nowhere to ruffle Julian’s hair. When the shadow in the corner of his eye resolved into the Black Widow, Julian belatedly realized that his startle reflex had not set in because a part of him had known there was no threat. Just as he had not questioned the foreign objects squeezed in among his school supplies – they were sure to be prank items courtesy of Clint and meant for use on others, not Julian himself.

“Study diligently and you shall become a great warrior of your kind,” Thor boomed at him. Loki was, once again, suspiciously absent. Ever since one Hermione J. Granger had set up shop in the FMRI’s subdivision on non-human magical beings, the Jotun had been joining Wanda at the facility a lot more frequently. Personally, Julian thought the man (god?) should leave well enough alone, but by all accounts his advances were no longer entirely unwelcome.

Julian wondered if Uncle Harry’s friend was more interested in studying Loki or in actually dating him, or maybe both? - but quickly decided he would rather not know anything about it. _Trying to understand why people love whom they love - th_ _ere lies the path to madness,_ the memory of Uncle Stephen’s voice whispered through Julian’s mind, accompanied by the mental image of the sorcerer’s scrunched up face as he looked at the triad around his brother Sherlock.

Julian loved his dad. Tony said that any other kind of love didn’t need his attention for at least another ten years, and Tony was a genius so he was probably right.

Julian shuffled his legs nervously, torn between wanting to get a move on and grateful that the Avengers were saying their goodbyes in private rather than at the airport. Bucky, sensing his disquiet, urged everyone to wrap it up and then they were leaving.

Bucky was not a man given to fussing or many words, but Julian saw his dad making sure that his child was wearing Uncle Harry’s emergency portkey bracelet and that the spell-proof StarkPhone was in its usual place at Julian’s hip next to his disillusioned garotte and favorite knife. Seeing Julian’s attention on him, Bucky gave a short, approving nod. Julian beamed.

They spent the rest of the trip in silence. As they passed through the back wall of the souvenir shop between terminals 1 and 2, Julian kept a steady hold of Bucky’s hand to steer him past the no-maj-repelling wards. Emerging on the other side, they found themselves not on the crowded, noisy airfield, but rather in a peaceful clearing among a small copse of trees. Children and their magical parents were rushing to and fro, trying to decide which pegasus-drawn carriage to ride. It wasn’t quiet, exactly, but there was an ambience of joyful anticipation that pleased both man and child.

“You heard them, kiddo: Try not to kill anyone on the first day.” An arm around Julian’s shoulders drew him into Bucky’s side for a warm, but brief farewell hug.

“If I do, I’ll make sure not to get caught,” Julian said, grinning.

“That’s the spirit,” Bucky replied with a quick grin of his own. Julian felt the rare gesture wash over him like warm sunlight.

An indignant gasp off to their right let them know that their exchange had been overheard. Julian looked around Bucky to see an older witch looking at them with outrage on her strict face. “Uh-oh.”

Bucky frowned in concern, then pasted on his best Bucky Casanova Barnes smile to face the witch. “Just kidding,” he confided. “Little one’s a bit nervous to be going off alone, you know?”

Immediately the witch’s face softened. “Of course,” she said. “Best run along now or they’ll leave without you.”

“Thanks, ma’am.”

For all that he had a metal arm and superstrength, Julian reflected, his dad’s best weapon really was his charme, just like Steve always said. He determined there and then that he absolutely needed to learn how to do that.

His dad seemed to read the thought right out of his head. “Give ‘em hell, kid.”

With a self-confident swagger, Julian headed toward the carriages and his new life at Ilvermorny.

Bucky remained on the field looking past the carriages long after the other parents had lost sight of them against the stormy autumn sky. “We have created a monster,” he sighed happily. Then he turned and headed home to Steve.

**Author's Note:**

> ...And that's it! Thank you so much for everyone who's been following along on this mad journey (special thanks go to wandmaker for frequent, encouraging comments. You rule!) 
> 
> Don't forget to feed the authors - kudos are wonderful, comments are love. Constructive criticism welcome! : )


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